Friday, November 12, 2004

The icy stone benches in the sculpture garden just outside
Where we flee into the cold March day
Should cool the flames, but
The intensity is still too much,
Lips touch,
Eyes open wide,
Our breath in tiny warm puffs between us
As we pull back, frighteningly aware that nothing will stop this.
Not him, not I.

He has brought lunch.
There are kumquats and raspberries,
Chocolate and rum,
A single apple, chosen for a poem they had liked
Eating in reverence, each bite both sacred and sexual
It is as perfectly romantic a moment
As I will ever share with anyone
And we both know this.
I am prescient of the nights I will spend
Cursing God,
Cursing that serpent of temptation and I believe,
Truly I believe, that this moment is worth it.

This how I become Eve
How the moment defines
Forever forward the sweet taste of this fruit
In my mouth,
There will be no forsaking this knowledge
Even when I long for my innocence back.

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