Read my poem, "Fall," on MadHat Lit
(Note: Creation, as calculated by Bishop James Ussher, was the night preceding Sunday, October 23, 4004 BC —which means the fall, Eve’s fall, the day when she stared into the eyes of the saurian and said, yes, yes, I will, might have been an autumn day.)
Later that fall, knowing then the cold, the clothing of autumn air with leaves, always remembering the snake, his blandishments and begging, his coaxing: fall. And she goes down again to that place like warm down in the fallow recesses of this season of iridescent light playing on the water’s edge, dimming in the crepuscule over rotting apples, burst brown in the decaying arms of the fall; in this season unknown in the jejune days of the garden, where all was perpetually young, perpetually whole, without blemish or age, where gravity had no power and nothing needed to fail and fall in the imperfections of loss and overripe flesh.
The apples glisten in the dying sun. She sees a small viper dart into the pile of fruit.
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