The Anti-Grief. Marianne Boruch

snake famished at this point, mouth

      wide open at, on that apple

      right out of Eve’s hand. And she’s not generous,

      or just can’t imagine—

      and will not not not release. Maybe that’s

      the bloody thorn of it.

      No sound in the garden. And closer, so much

      weirdity to love. Which one, Adam

      or Eve smarter, more full of wanting, of bravado,

      wonder, all grief finally but first

      able to talk those animals into lounging about,

      no vengeance, no tricks, assuming

      chats with a snake don’t count. I’m not sure what counts.

      Or who’s even counting though the parrot

      (a parrot? large, strange in that setting, a so-what-if-

      history-begins-as-some-mythic-dire-reboot

      all over him) looks away, in profile, ready to lament not yet

      the again again

      calm enough on a branch held high by

      the first man. Now just a distance,

      an apple to take or to give.

      It’s those was-and-will-be stories my whole life

      with a fuck-up inside. Starting sweet,

      out of place. Pre-unbearable.

      The Professor of Antiquities