Eve and the Archangel in Paradise
All day without knowing, the woman dreamed
him, between Flaubert, Cezanne and flat turns
of cars and yellowed torsos, then confirmed
by neon what she missed. It seemed extreme
this loneliness. She waits for him to leave,
rubs her thumb past eyes, feels the press of arms
like liquid spilled across her breast. No harm.
She sleeps, naked and alone, wakes to thieves
stealing cars below. She counts six red birds
perched atop a chain-link fence, then outlines
with her finger the black freighter, anchored
beyond the breakers. She wants to tell him
of color and fences. Instead, she folds
red silk squares, stacks apples in wooden bowls.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Tia Ballantine would be pleased to hear from you.