The world was full
and I danced all day
and sang to the birds
and held my Father's hand,
talking to him endlessly.

The garden was life,
the wind tickling my ear
with words from the air
and the ground held me,
keeping me close and stable.

The tree was beautiful,
with vines for leaves
and fruit that dripped,
hanging like droplets
from the vines.

The serpent was quiet,
it only whispered
and hissed
and slithered around me
till I was comfortable in its squeeze.

The fruit was sweet
like honeysuckles
or bee nectar
or ripe cherries
or the smell of fresh roses.

The fruit was bitter,
like the feel of thorns
or like bile
or thirst
or snake's venom.

I was exposed,
my Father knew
but I covered myself anyway
hoping I could hide my shame,
myself.

He was enraged
and betrayed.
He spoke like the mountains when they'd formed
and wept
like all of the waterfalls in Eden.

The curse was a pit
with so much darkness
I couldn't see beauty
and jagged glass
that pierced my opened eyes, then my womb.

The skins were a gift,
He stitched them Himself.
They protect me from the glass
and even now, when I wear them
I hear his faraway voice.