VALERIE NIEMAN

Adam and Eve as Fire and Water

The first thing he had to teach her was how to break
a line. She had a tongue like every silver thing
(minnow, brook, icicle he named,
ermine and salmon) but lacked structure.

Here, he said, snapping his fingers,
here, and her thought cracked
with a puff of steam, leaving sharp white ends.
She licked the sap from parted words.

Water covers fire.
Fire makes water flee.
They were stones whirled at the end
of a cord, flying apart, falling together.

He carried her from place to place
in the garden. She rotated in his hands
like a piece of fruit,
then slid through his fingers,

re-formed at his feet, a mirror pool,
raised herself into a wave, enveloped him.
For a moment he guttered,
pulling down around his hot center,

then he found the oxygen in her simple form,
broke the bonds, fed.  

   Contributor’s notes

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