I was a broken rib in that garden, a piece of the whole,
a hole in the ground, a groan

heard later in the story, my kind, a scapegoat,
a mere device,

like a fly in the milk, a complication driving the plot
and animating to chattiness

that serpent coiled in the crotch
of an apple tree.

In paradise, a radish tasted the same as a lime,
saffron no different than salt.

Blood stayed in the vein, no butchered meat,
nothing savory on the tongue.

The scene hung like a masterpiece, contentment
a nail at every corner to prevent

the slightest tilt. But my eye wanted neon
and fireworks, my nose

perfume and sweat. My mouth craved a meal
of real consequence,

the flesh of every forbidden fruit, desire
no less human

than my hand reaching through brambled
branches for a choice.