Had I Been There, Had It Been Me

Always the script, the dramatic comma,

the pointed ellipsis, half turn, beat, the exit

itself as punctuation. Let’s say the back wall

of the house fell away: first cracks

down the plaster, then it crumbles

to reveal seventy-five rows of spectators.

That’s the explanation: they’ve been there

all along; I mulled blocking on a blind

impulse, but it turns out a correct one.

Maybe someone is making love to me

(in the 19th century sense): do I throw off

his hand, exit with pithy wit? Or simply

submit to it: the sappy moment

which will, I know, have to be resisted

in some later scene. Had I been there,

had it been me, I would have said—

and the audience would have been moved

to applaud. Astounding improvisation!

I’d have walked right up to the lawyer,

the bank manager, and I’d have said—

or, if it was me, it would never have gotten

that far; I’d have turned to her and said—

So I am contemplating in its shade

an apple tree. Haven’t I often done that?

So why not me? Late August, the leaves

like arrowheads, dark green, waxy,

punctuated by apples—constellations

of apples. There I see The Hunter, bow

pulled back, the apples of his quiver fixed

with perfect aim: William Tell, daughter

across the tree, of apples herself, poised

with a perfect fruit above her head:

wet tension of its surface, red skin

that kisses the sun. And this perfect tree.

This perfect tree in which every stamen

was touched by pollen, in which every

flower thickened to fruit: tree that knows

by its own example perfection. In each

cluster, five apples bunch as tight

as chambers of a human heart. Had I

been there, had it been me—and the slither

up the trunk brought my attention low,

the rippling body sliding along the trunk,

I who have been so good all these years

at resisting, and giving in, and resisting—

I’d have heard the melodious hiss, seen

the glinting tongue, its fork invading

the region of my heart, the archer

in that perfect canopy aiming right at me,

I who have given in to desire

when the stakes were much lower,

could I resist those movements, how fully

the serpent’s hiss gives itself over to simile:

I am like, I am like, I am like. . . .

Seen it before, mister. I’d have sighed

in an aside, glanced up at the sky,

deadpanned the audience, and said—

Or had my lover brought the apple.

For years I have told them not to burn

money on me. But to bring only this,

to hold it out with a silent smile

as they enter the house, down center

on the stage of the palm. No better way

to say I love you. So why not me?

Early October, the outsize hunger

after running, and my lover brings it over.

I recognize on his breath the scent

of the serpent, and the apple, the one

forbidden thing. Deep voice, dark eyes,

silent smile and perfect apple;

only midday draped across his body,

tight, alert, alive to the moment of sin.

And reaching out to take it in my hand.

Who better than me? Let the tension

linger, let the audience pulse

with anticipation. We touch over

the forbidden fruit. The stage lights dim,

and I look at him, and I look at him,

and raise my eyebrows, and say—

But even so, wouldn’t I end up here again,

always here? Angels crossing swords

behind me, shame clothing me, conflating

all my losses—the loss of God, the loss

of apples, how they expand inside

to fill up hunger. Maybe there are

no words here, just the sky

blackening with anger. Maybe words

wouldn’t be useful here anyway.

Consider a scrim: the night sky blotted

of constellations; nothing but gray

swirls of wrath. And project against it

a man’s silhouette: head bent, empty-

handed, the memory of apples imprinted

on his wordless tongue, and around his

neck, loss—like a cowbell—announcing

his presence to the fallen world.

Source: Sweet Core Orchard (University of Tampa Press, 2009)