The Garden of Eden

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The garden of Eden
is in our backyard.
I've watched the apples
grow rounder, begin to turn
red; the pears become
more globular, like fat buttocks
of a painted nude.

In bed together, we look
out the window at the fruit
as it ripens,
ready to tempt us:
only a bite, we say,
it tastes like true love
or immortality—
two fantasies
that hold us spellbound,
watching day-by-day
as the fruits grow larger,
plumping out to fullness.

Of course, I'm no Eve
and you are not the original
Adam. Now we are both
middle-aged and can't
be considered innocent;
we know all too well
the pain of failure,
the self-consciousness
of divorce;
what it feels like
to be banished from Paradise.

By now we've seen
what good or evil
has to offer—
but still, the glimpse
of naked genitals,
each sexual act
deliciously intoxicating...
making love
in summer's full heat,
the fruit almost within arm's reach
through the open window.

When we tire of eating
(metaphorically)
any small gesture of love,
any caress
or quick morning embrace,
the soft feel of a breast,
a kiss where lips entwine,
and here we are in Eden again,
under the apple tree,
beneath the ripening pears.

Copyright by Carolyn Zonailo: www.carolynzonailo.com, 2004