By R. Zamora Linmark
Almost paradise.
Almost heir.
How tragic
To think: Once,
This was yours.
Once, you mattered.
From His touch, you formed.
With His sigh, you came.
While I cribbed inside you –
A piece of rib, breaking
Out of your loneliness.
I cannot deny what’s yours.
But the idea was mine.
Out of my mind.
Must I remind you
Who planted the tree, minded
The fire, let in the snake,
Fired the canons?
Who made you this garden?
You and me exiles?
Oh, get over this place, Adam.
Start by covering up.
Outside is another home,
Death, and more journeys.
Come, my love,
Our broken world awaits.
Montage Vol. 9 • February 2006
