Eden Tiresias

[apocalypsis—L. to uncover, disclose]

i. “I am the sign of the Letter, / . . .”

No seed. Flat beneath my hand:

bone. Pelvis a field, but no seed.

Because there was no punishment

like fucking, its whip burned

Adam and nothing after. Because

shine took flight like two parrots

so deep green they seemed black.

And though the field tilted and split

forth meant two ways, though

far into the garden meant I lost

love, even a god could honor that.

“Cell by cell unsexed, I will light the

female,” said the snake, and what was

I was lost. What was shine fell;

a shed skin white as water falling.

Wisdom, when did it descend

weeping into each thing? I saw

too much to know who I was:

asleep in each molecule, chaos’s

energy. I couldn’t speak of this

change, how apocalypse once

gave tongue to each new skin

between my legs, twin parishioners,

bent prayer books inside me. Dominus

was Eden in me, and the Tree

the world had imagined, except:

interior, what asked for a mind

to hew with wounds. Except memory:

jibe, jilt, jest. What was real died

as its own elegy, as Adam did not.

ii. “. . . and the designation of the division.”

Mons: venus-field held horizon by sharp

fuckless months, field lain fallow. I lost him.

I did not love. Because bitterness lit me

strung tongue to gut. Because god loved

the way the snake shook shine into the tree,

leavening air with matte magnolia leaves.

My mouth opened to ask the snake’s name.

Like his tongue from which each word went

each way the meaning bent—leading me

the way back—, I never doubted what I didn’t

change down to the syllable, molecule,

shift between dahlia and dalliance, male to

woman, behold, becoming her, became me.

The tree wept cheap greenery; the snake left

what was knowledge, what was the given

matter: until Adam found me again, I put

weeping even inside myself: I knew

I could not explain I saw the end of things

static in anxious limitless rage. It was male,

and yet Adam found me the way language

meant to uncover: gladly he lent his mouth,

his hands, husband one, and one lover,

here the church, here the steeple: knuckles knelt,

o Deus, I remember: Self and Other,

and between us every elegy, all the fallen

language that couldn’t hold its own

and wouldn’t give it back, had no flesh

except how long dust keeps our alphabets.

It came alive outside the mind, intellect.

I loved it. He could not touch me there.

iii. “I am the sign of the Letter,

and the designation of the division.”

No seed. Flat beneath my hand:

mons: venus-field held horizon by sharp

bone. Pelvis a valley but no seed:

fuckless months, field lain fallow. I lost him

because there was no punishment

I did not love. Because bitterness lit me

like fucking, its wicked burn

strung tongue to gut. Because god loved

Adam and nothing after. Because

the way the snake shook shine into the tree,

the shine took flight like two parrots,

leavening air with matte magnolia leaves

so deep green they seemed black.

My mouth opened to ask the snake’s name;

and though the field tilted and split

like his tongue from which each word went

forth meant two ways, though

each way the meaning bent—leading me

far into the garden—meant I lost

the way back, I never doubted what I didn’t

love, even a god could honor that.

“Change down to the syllable, molecule,

cell by cell unsexed, I will light the

shifts between dahlia and dalliance, male-to-

female,” said the snake, and what was

woman, behold, becoming her, became me.

“I” was lost. What was shine fell;

the tree wept cheap greenery; the snake left

a shed skin white as water falling.

What was knowledge, what was the given

wisdom, when did it descend into

matter: until Adam again found me, I put

weeping inside each thing I saw.

Weeping even inside myself: I knew

too much to know who I was;

I could not explain I saw the end of things

asleep in each molecule, chaos

static in anxious limitless rage. It was male

energy. I couldn’t speak of this

and yet Adam found me the way language

changed, how apocalypse once

meant to uncover: gladly he lent his mouth,

gave tongue to each new skin.

His hands, husband one, and one lover,

between my legs, twin parishioners,

here the church, here the steeple: knuckles knelt

bent prayer books inside me, Dominus,

o Deus, I remember: Self and Other

was Eden in me and the Tree

between us every elegy, all the falls

the world had imagined except

language, what couldn’t hold its own

interior, what asked for a mind

and wouldn’t give it back, had no flesh

to hew with wounds, no memory

except how long dust keeps our alphabets.

Jibe, jilt, jest: what was real died as

it came alive outside the mind, intellect

its own elegy, and Adam did not

love it. He could not touch me there.

Source: Ploughshares (2002)