Eve at forty’s dissatisfied
with the shape of her hips 
& having to correct the record—
the scratching out, the adding in.
If given her youth to live again,
she’d’ve covered up & found 
a quiet corner of the garden
away from need & distraction,
away from the constant pummeling
rainbows & seedless grapes.
She’d wanted to be a mother,
but not the mother of all,
the butt of jokes, the fractured rib,
when it was merely a moment 
of weakness & slight despair.
You, too, encounter moments
of weakness & slight despair,
when its easier simply to let go
& see what tomorrow brings.
There were no pills to halt 
the onslaught, no backup plan.
God, she thinks, it was just a flash,
and then quite suddenly 
she was denied ice cream forever
& lightning bugs & strolls in the park.
She was only sixteen, 
she hadn’t even learned about
her body’s geometry
nor what the angels meant
when they stepped aside, wincing
at what remained of Paradise.

– Carl Boon