Nine Weeks of Eden

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NINE WEEKS OF EDEN


Nine whole weeks of Eden 

and not much has changed pre-fall 

from the uterus. I still 


teach middling lessons on 

The Odyssey, winding my way 

through a series of personal asides 


like a button-downed bark 

blown off-course of a lesson plan 

until we scrape home soil


with an audible sigh  

at the sound of the bell. 

Crab grass is still under the impression 


that this is their garden, 

and hell, based on the look of things

they've got a claim. The Subaru has 


stopped leaking oil, and while this might

be read as an early sign 

of a world-made-right, all


the same it likely means I need 

to fill it with oil, tonight. 

But yesterday Eden spat up


a chuckle, lying on her back

beneath Blue Elephant

dangling his trunk like a ripe fruit.


Not quite an echoing guffaw

to shock the world into bloom,

but it spread far enough that I heard it


from the other room, the ripples

of her mirth littering the house

like dandelion seeds. “Get in here,


Luke” Gracie called, and I said 

“Coming" and meant it,

despite a stumble or two


on the way over clutter

accumulated in the living room,

clearing a path like a gardener


pulling weeds over

(you wouldn't know it at first

glance) a patch of good soil.


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