Eden, Early One Morning
by Phoebe Wray

Clinging early morning mist obscured the fact
that Yahweh was about,
moving through the trees,
scattering moisture like stars.
I hid.
Because I knew now that Yahweh had lied to me.
I knew I had no feathers
and no fur
and was not green.
And was alive.

Adam slept on his side
with his hair falling forward
and one hand lightly clenched.
He smelled of the mist and the earth
and I wanted him.
But He was walking and would find us.
Would ask the usual questions:
want to know if we, ummmm
had done anything, ummmm
we ought not to have done.

What could that be?
What could He not know?
And if He knew, why ask?

Yes, Yahweh.
I ate a fruit you said would kill me.
I am alive.
Blood pounding in my temples,
an ache between my legs
when I look at this man Adam,
a flutter like a wing in my heart
when I see the beauty of this garden.

Adam ate it, too.
Because I was too short
to reach the perfect one
he got it for me.
And we shared it,
shared it as we have shared
every moment of discovery.

Yes, Yahweh.
And what do I now know?
That I love this man.
That you are my father.
That I do not know my mother
but don't know why.
That I have no fur, feathers, scales, leaves.
That I am as beautiful as this garden.
And that within me
is everything.
Everything you are
and everything that will be.

The snake beguiled me
with a wonderful story about life.
How Adam and I are one and also two.
How I can be in my spirit and also in my flesh.
And that they are a web
and a trap
and the gate to eternity.
He said nothing bad about you, Yahweh.
Just said, these are the facts:
that I am within myself two: spirit and flesh.
And that they are, with love,

Can I say to you, Yahweh,
the snake blessed me?
(Because he did.)
Would I dare say that?

The serpent is in the garden,
a glowing presence in high boughs.
And you are stalking me!
And I am alive.



A list of links to some more of Phoebe Wray's work - short stories and writings published elsewhere - can be found at www.phoebewray.net