The moon, full as it was, was not ready
and spilled,
and the snake rose like a branch,
calm as a rod
lifted,
considering the woman in the garden
out of the corner
of its eye.
The moon, understand,
back then was cutting
corners,
unable to handle
even the ocean, let alone
a woman’s body, the inner
workings of the pear
near her center.
The woman stepped one step
closer to knowing the sudden
strike on ankle bone
made of dust
left over from the moon’s creation,
the bleeding coming
after, the garden full
of spilled light.
