I was six
I knew he had a quarter in his pocket
I knew it was mine if when he roared
who is the greatest grandpapa of all
and the silver and Wedgewood china on table shook
and the Irish maids ghosted by in starched uniforms
and the chauffeur polished the silver Lincoln Continental
and my grandmother tended to the terra cotta pots
of pink and white orchids in the gazebo
and my face flamed and I yelled
looking down at my poodle skirt
its rhinestone eye staring
Not Exactly Genesis
That was not the day I killed him.
That day he was sprawled in the shade,
swigging a six pack, while I pulled apples off
the Tree to bake a crisp or maybe a cobbler,
hauling wood, building a fire, sweat streaming
between my breasts. What is the point of this
good for nothing, this carbon copy of God
who thinks every day is the Seventh Day?
I found comfort in the snake, an astute philosopher
reduced to belly crawling and dust eating
by a spiteful God. He is a Platonist, believing
Forms float in perfection beyond time and space.
Snake Apple Garden
As for me, I prefer the earthy pragmatism
of Aristotle, the slightly burnt crust
of an apple pie.
It was the next day I killed him.
The snake donated the poison, pleased
to be rid of this adolescent fool. I strode
out of the garden with my lapsarian pal
curled around my shoulders like a satin stole.
You can find us on Thursday nights at Adam’s Rib,
still arguing like an old married couple
as we sip salt-rimmed Margaritas.
Forms are abstract, eternal, only knowable
through the mind, insists the snake.
But I know better.
His body was perfectly concrete.