Eve

Not that one, that her,
the she so despised,
blamed one, fruit craving
fruitful one, but this: time
the waiting time, anticipant
hours that pace, that check
and check for shadows emissarial,
their length and impatience,
their drag and invitation
to look back, to summon
a staggering syntax—what if,
if only, next time, how come.
There was a street I knew
and grew into like an apricot tree.
It stood in storms.
I have its leaves somewhere,
their green whispering
that spoke to the air,
[Of daylight opening the sky]
to birds that saw the world
curve away into forever,
[Of summering winds]
to ants, streaming and crushable,
[Of weightlessness that bears most]
to bricks that rose into the walls
of our bedrooms, our kitchens,
[Of departures, wilding and avid].
I hear them, the green and whispering
proceedings, verging, anticipant,
the same, all incantations the same—
[This has begun…]
And I will remember,
remember, this day of November.

Yvette Christiansë
7 November 2016
2828 Broadway