in the twilight of this
world, it is always dusk.
every nightfall, in the beginning,
bright as original dawn,
and only a child could hope to
see the flaming sword standing between me
*
and my origin —as if I would ever want to
even if I could go back to—yes, it’s true,
when history began, stars were so near
we gathered them like fruit
of the vine, could you even imagine—
I had no need for memory
*
then, and I am not sure
if I can explain
what happened after
—before the word was
made flesh, the word
was flesh— before star
*
was seen before tree
was climbed before serpent
was whispered before fruit
was plucked before skin
was naked before ashamed
was cast out of the garden, we
*
who once touched what words
refer to grew apart, scattered
seeds fallen on barren ground.
footprints filled with blood, a wasteland of
wandering littered the scorch of sand,
mine first when the birth pangs began
*
followed by my firstborn’s
soles stained red lifelong after killing Abel.
and as every wound has its corresponding word,
I thought mine the mouth of grief until, generations after
Adam’s missing rib returned to dust, through the women’s eyes
I watched Mary watch her son’s chest heave one last
*
time, in the Place of the Skull, stood still
—as when Cain’s hands brought violence into
this world—but began to gush again
after the centurion withdrew his spear—Eden
is somewhere, I think, at the edge of deep
space, opposite our galactic end, whirling away from us
John Fry‘s poems appear or are forthcoming in Blackbird, Colorado Review, West Branch, and Water~Stone Review, among others. He is the author of the chapbook silt will swirl and holds an MFA from at Texas State University. A poetry editor for Newfound Journal, he’s a PhD student at UT-Austin.