Sunday, February 20, 2005


by Zinta Aistars

Would you recognize paradise
outside its garden? Bitten apples,
chewed to the core, a few worms,
a stray serpent coiling on a tree limb.
This apple orchard on the edge
of suburbia, two streets beyond
the gas station, the bakery,
the mechanic's garage -
here the fruit hangs ripened,
heavy with juice, slightly bruised.
In this paradise we coil
in our own dance -
at moments my zigging
where you zag, while you zig
against my chastened zag.

The Garden Father watches
over us, an amused flicker in
His golden eye -
we are the vintage love,
paradise regained,
knuckled into pretend submission.

Trace my scars, dear heart,
with a fingertip, and here:
kiss. We are old wine
of bruised apples, giddy
with renewed hope,
intoxicated with history,
once banished, now transformed
into a metamorphosis of Eden.
We are bliss, stolen
back from the serpent.
We are the next Genesis.
We are the seed
of a bright and shiny
red apple.

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