blackbird online journal spring 2002 vol.1 no. 1



This Time

Think if the first garden began along the sea:
ducks, cormorants, loons, terns navigating
from the north to be named in this place for
long neck or frightening cry, the quick dive,
the sudden attitude in wind, our slow progress
over the bridge from the mainland the untying
of the tongue. Adam never saw a bull thistle
in his life—or sea rocket or stinkhorn or beach
pennywort—the heron stabbing snakes, while Eve,
glistening with sweat, dreamt the long waters

of Calibogue Sound, even when Skull Creek
was veering east before any bridge threw its
shadow down. The tide bringing us this far
salty as blood. A froth. A whiteness. Pale eyes.
We’re pointing at the great blue heron gliding
full-length over the marsh, trailing its history
of crawling things that disdained the ground,
its shadow slicing the lagoon that separates
condo from house from shack, our sentences
falling apart. “Look! Look!” The heron gone.  

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