after lines from Cesare Pavese’s “Grappa in September”

Her problem, of course, is that she was never a child,
and so hadn’t the opportunity

to know the tree as a sapling, to climb
its branches, bark roughing her thighs, but only

viewed it with the distance of an adult.
Now it’s a question of staying on task with the story

of suffering a great pain. To climb
perhaps another higher tree,

and look back into Eden at the lost crown,
to paint what she remembers later

of that last day: the sky’s blue witness, the leaves slick, glistening.
And the snake—had the snake not spoken? Was it

her imagination, trick of the shadows?
She must variegate the color of bark: siennas, umbers,

ochers, reds, even green moss. Branches
may break off during their lifespans,

may be riddled with knots, regrets.
Cover her right eye and look with the left,

then reverse: each eye sees color differently.
How does she paint the temptation? Every limb and leaf

of before and after? The fulcrum where everything
stops to ripen? Regret a tart yellow.

Black for secrets. Her children must know that the ochres and umbers
even now conceal fruit that would fall at a touch.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 4.

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