Before there was, there was not – not him nor you
nor God, but us. Together we broiled in the darkness,
sinking into each other and growing pregnant with the idea.
In paradise, we knew nothing of good or evil
and Adam and God would do the craziest things
when they were drunk on their godliness.
Standing in the shadow of a tree that drips red apples
from its twisted branches, the birth of the world in their shine.
Looking up from the apple cupped in your palm,
its white wound spitting a coolness that slides down your arm:
Adam lounging in the sun, his eyes closed.
He is with God and he doesn’t even know.
The world could cease and Adam wouldn’t give a shit.
After you cradle his head and press the fruit to his lips
he will see you, your wild hair and breasts.
You have given this awful world a reason to exist.
A covenant barring destruction marked not by rainbows,
but the scream of a woman giving birth.