To Adam

I. 

Adam –

I now always tack
a sigh to your name,
a stand-in for more precise feelings:
I know I shouldn’t be mad still, but I am. It’s personal, not principle—that you were the one to betray me, the same one who shared conversations unlike any I’d known my whole life. 

Forget that my life was only a day-old.
Forget that you were my only option.
It was still extraordinary –                           
the opening in me meeting the opening in you.

To be fair, we didn’t know how to be closed yet.
Now we have learned to hold words under
our tongues, vary the angles of shoulders,
narrow and soften eyes.

II.

Adam –

Remember the way you kissed my tears,
though we didn’t know what they were yet –

that my body had guessed at truth,
no apple needed to intuit
that perfection was temporary.

You pressed your lips to each drop,
telling me God had said you could drink of any water,
all was yours for the tasting.
That was the start:
You tasted me in the dark,
and I tasted you back,
and we didn’t know shame yet,
but it still seemed special.

III.

Adam –

You didn’t even call me by name.

“The woman that you gave me.”

During those talks we’d had – the ones we’ll never have again – you said it over and over. Eve. Eve. Eve. Each time like a key finding its proper slot.

But now all words are different.

And when I hear you repeat my name, it’s ownership, irritation,
lust if we’re lucky – recognition of us as separate,
two, bound together by guilt & circumstance,
unable to repeat the miracle of that first day –

staying up all night talking,
bright with the hope exclusive to those
who don’t yet know the need for it.