Thursday, September 23
BOOK VII
Of nakedness I was never
ashamed. Of shame I was never
naked. I never sought
the figtree’s shadow
or its briefleaf. Adam clothed me
in want when I refused
his bodygrief. And when he had me
(I knew my duty)
he clothed me
in a cloak of dried bees,
stinger-stitched. I was a Christmas
cactus, my blood bright
flowering. My desert-making
want evaporated
from my tongue as if.
As if my teeth could flint
heavens from earth,
water from land,
woman from man,
woman from woman.
Don’t think the Garden
was perfect. My feet were callused
there just the same
as the cast-out lands.
Thorns always pricked.
(I was lonely.)
From his teeth
Adam fishboned meat.
(Emilia Phillips)