It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
– William Shakespeare
The Seed of Love
Eve, in the garden, naked, unashamed,
had watched the apple bud into a bloom,
grow soft, then hard, then ripen to a fruit.
And though she’d seen a thousand fruits before,
this one seemed redder, riper than the rest.
The serpent, with his wise and glinting eyes,
curled snugly round her arm, his hissing breath
a wordless whisper in her churning mind.
His scales were cold. She pushed him from her skin.
Let all the records show that she did not
reach up to tug the fruit—it fell to her.
She only bent to snatch it from the ground,
brought tight-skinned flesh to lips, paused, and bit in.
The juice, the rind, the hard crunch of the core—
The taste was just as brilliant as the skin.
A seed, jarred from its shelter, slithered past
her lips, and made the long plunge down her throat.
They say that apple seeds are poisonous.
Above her spun the moon and day-dimmed stars,
the sunlight narrowed to a flaming sword.
Adam, approaching, saw her darkened eyes,
and thought it was the Snake among the leaves.
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