A Little Eden
You know that place
dreamed by poets and
ex-wives on their davenports.
In-between paragraphs of romance novels.
A womb of light that holds us,
inside the perfect sun just like the one in the corner
of a drawing you sketched when you were three.
You could barely hold a pencil,
but you knew how to paint the world happy.
As you grew so did the details.
In kindergarten, trees got branches.
First grade, branches get leaves.
By fifth grade, your own little Eden had another member.
Your own little Adam and Eve,
By eighth grade Adam had an idea,
which became the sexual frustration shown in the teeth marks of an apple.
By the time high school graduation came,
Eve had a baby, a welfare check, and
a thousand images of what Eden might have looked like
had she just never shared the crayons.