The Taste Of Apples
These days there is speculation; they say it was not an apple Eve held to Adam’s mouth
and ground against his teeth; it was a fig, they say,
maybe a mango, perhaps a pomegranate, a plum – fruit more exotic and tempting,
more worthy of the Fall. I know apples, polished
skin like blood like wine like war binding tight the white flesh, the black pits
pressed into the narrow center sleeping like sin like sex
like hunger. They say Paradise was tropical, filled with sultry days and balmy nights
too unlike the chill autumn winds needed for apples
to thrive, to come to full fruit. They say it comes down to the geographic impossibility.
I know apples, the way the taste of them knots
the tongue in thick accents, the sandy bite, the sharp sound of separation and the jagged hole
it leaves, the tempered flow of juice of tears of sweetness.
They still say that Eve should have known better, been wiser; should never have strayed,
or disobeyed her creator’s command. But I know apples –
the way the first bite sticks in the throat, the dark rush of knowing, the heady flavor,
the echo of the serpent’s hiss, saying taste, taste and see.