Say, Eve left first –
right away –
doesn’t like remonstrance.
Did she invite the serpent
to hiss chthonic wisdom, or
did he uncoil and slither along?
We have no record of that moment
of decision or avoidance.
 
Adam hung back, sulking.
Wasn’t all this meant to be his?
 
She went on,
planted a garden with a tree,
an apple tree – or was it an apricot?
 
Generous with the fruit,
Eve kept only a third.
Of the rest, she gave
half to Ishmael’s progeny
and half to those of Isaac.
They planted the pits.
Trees grew and thrived
but not together.
 
Sky-god worshipers in
warring assemblies, firm
in dissonant truths from
Abraham’s split heritage,
pilgrimage to the shared,
partitioned golden locus,
their prayers transected
by grudges and grief.
 
Scent of fruit trees in bloom
wafts across borders.
 
One day a honeybee
from some struggling hive
buzzed from one tree to another,
cross-pollinated across barbed wire –
and so, a tree grows
that doesn’t remember bloodshed.
 
Who will eat that fruit
and what knowledge imbibe?