Cain at the Potter’s Wheel
We never knew the garden, only clay
of life in exile. Between the knees
of Eve we were born—spinning in the gray
formation of her wheel. She tried to squeeze
our open mouths until each was a vase—
open to what she poured—twin vessels of
right judgment, holders of good speech. She’d glaze
our cries by coating them with words like love
and bringing stolen flowers and cut fruit
from someplace far away. And I always
asked where they came from. Taken with the root
of things, I used their seeds to fill my days
and grew a new garden for Adam, Eve—
a paradise they wouldn’t have to leave.
A paradise they wouldn’t have to leave,
I thought. I offered my best crops to Eve—
but they were tinged with Eden. Adam grieved,
refused to eat the memories. Abel’s sleeve
was stained with blood, the slaughter. But they’d eat
what he brought home. It was the same with God.
They all preferred the dead lamb to the wheat.
And so I hit the butcher with my rod
and planted him—the broken shards, to see
what he would grow. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
No rose to make Eve smile, not a tree
to root Adam from leaving—not a ring
to join mother and father—just the sound
of Abel’s blood, spinning beneath the ground.
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/digital-books-14/v14/digital edition/Complete Digital Version of -/Able Muse, Print Edition (Number 14), Winter 2012