No one ever said
how high the apple was,
and just how much
of a stretch it might have been
for Eve to pick it.
I think about this today
as I reach for the small, round
purple fruits I cannot name.
There is pleasure and
frustration in not knowing
what to call something
so pleasuresome, so good.
The tree is tall. I do not
need a snake to invite me
to reach. And when I
devour the sweet purple flesh
and the soft cream around
the large black seeds,
I do not need anyone
to bid me take another bite.
I do not share.
From not far away, a rooster
crows. From not far away,
the sound of wind disturbing
dried banana leaves. Those
trees are not so difficult to reach.
Scent of the sea, is it? I do not
pause long to consider the possibilities,
purple juice streaming down
the long, not quite long enough
reach of my arm.