imagine eating a fruit

so sweet it revealed

your own skin to you.

why say we did wrong?

guilt’s just a melody,

a comet, a dry tin bucket.

there’s a pomegranate-sun

nestled neatly in the body,

but we forget this fact.

if i had visited the garden,

i wouldn’t have shown up

as a snake, no no.

instead—a pink baby pig.

i’d have played the fiddle,

told the-woman & the-man,

           dance with me, drink milk, 
           let’s plug in this antique lamp, 
           let’s pour honey on our toes.

why not believe in us—

why not believe 

in the things we can do?