After the Garden

two white eggs in a nest
It isn’t the tree —she misses the roses and lilies, the does
that came, thighs trembling, to eat
from her hand. Sometimes her palm
shivers remembering their silky wet

mouths. No garden she tills now
would ever welcome deer to nibble
carrot greens and lettuce heads.
Man with the bow refuses to tend
the land, and no harvest has come.

At dusk, he squats or kneels, plucks
and carves the breast of a dove,
throws feathers and blood into fire
as if they never made a body fly.
He thumbs the two eggs he took

from the nest and tilts back his head
to split each orb between open teeth.
Later he’ll undo the lamb skin
from her shoulders, finger her white
flesh with his eyes, and pull her down.

Under thumb, her body will crack
till gold bleeds into the earth.