Eve

There is the act, then everything

Leading up to it, and the act,

Though we take pictures

And tell stories, is just the endpoint,

Before another round of everything

Starts again: like a first birthday,

Which we celebrate like it means something,

When really it’s every day,

All the hours, driving you there,

That matter most.

            Or like the apple, red and crispy,

She sunk her teeth into,

A wet and crunchy symbol

Of disobedience, that somehow stands in

As a moment of revelation,

But it was more the consummation

Of a trend, an internal one,

To question.

            And anyway, I don’t like it,

The story, because if she didn’t know

Good and evil, but was still cursed,

Then her free will was useless:

If her choices could effect her fall

If she chose wrong, then she should know

What wrong means; it’s only fair.

            And if free will,

To have a purpose, means choosing

Between good and evil,

And biting the fruit meant knowing

The difference, and the knowing

Was forbidden, then she, and we

Were never meant to have it,

And what we hold most dear and sacred

Was an accident, and still a curse.