Freedom and forgiveness are often closely intertwined. While these emotional processes can exist independently of one another, carving out a space for absolution in one’s life can provide a relief from anger and resentment. An early example of this cycle of freedom and forgiveness can be found in the Biblical story of Adam, alluded to in the title of Adam in the Garden, by AE Hines. In this volume, Hines has created a midlife speaker who reflects upon his past, specifically the evolution of his sense of self. There are an array of similarities between the Biblical Adam and the speaker threaded throughout, however, this modernized “Adam” allows the reader to witness his self-actualization. He is not merely bound to the anger and graces bestowed upon him by a higher power. This speaker is vulnerable and reflective, as he not only reclaims the ancient myth, but also lays the groundwork to engineer his own salvation.
As soon as the book begins, the reader is swept right into the action: “like blinking satellites / or distant moons, each of us / edging closer / to discovery we could not / yet name.” The speaker is untethered, and exploring his intrapersonal world, as well as the lives of others. One part participant, and a second part observer, the speaker spotlights the mortality of the world around us. He urges the reader “to remember / this bright world, blue and green, is dying.” Even “small children breaking free” from the relative safety of their parents can be found “cradling each fish / before tossing it back into the sea.” These dead fish become an object of play for the children, and also a chilling reminder for the speaker of the inevitability of death which lies in waits, ready to claim us. Their childhood innocence will only last for so long, as they seek increasing independence from their parents. Eventually, moments like these will be viewed by the children via the lens of stark reality which welcomes them into young adulthood. Enchantment can only last for so long, even if parents do their best to shield their children from harsh truths.
And while trying to carefully usher children into a ruthless world, parents are forced to deal with their own demons. Some come in the form of societal issues, while others are more personal in nature. For example, when you live on a dying planet, how does one keep hope alive? The speaker resolves to work towards inner peace, but he maintains a realistic, perhaps even atheistic perspective. There is no sense in crafting a lifestyle by which one looks forward to an afterlife, sentenced “to climb / the same regretful stairs, reliving / a life shoved like a grand piano / into a room too small to hold it.” The speaker is more than content to be free from worry, judgment, and regrets after death and asks: “Why does it bring me such peace, / this notion of disappearing?” Perhaps the appeal of fleeing relates back to the speaker’s confining childhood experiences. “I swore I’d never go back...and any way out / of its dead-end halls.” Throughout his life, he tried “to get my father out of my ears, / to unloose my mother” as he tried to break free from familial trauma and ties. However, at every turn, the speaker is met with “Wall after wall. No door. / Not a window to be found.” This judgment and inner monologue follows him, and these parental memories revisit him whenever they care to do so. It is clear at this point that he is going to have to find his own emancipation from this burdensome monstrosity.
And while the speaker has the best of intentions to unleash the stronghold that his trauma has on him, this is not going to prove to be an easy task. As a gay man, the speaker already feels invisible at times, and in order to survive has to keep his sexuality hidden. Before he can resolve his past, he needs to come to grips with those who are condemning him in the here and now. In the poem, “Sacramento 1994,” a quiet eroticism juxtaposes itself against the backdrop of two cops knocking on his door. The speaker envisions his freedom of expression as being able “to Peter Pan my way through every coffee shop / and light dazzled bar.” This ethereal imagery is in stark contrast to the uniformed officers, “badged in black, one waving a finger.” Armed with an unfounded complaint though, the cops depart. While the lovers are “gripping the sunbaked sill” the speaker finds his voice “and crowed.” The songs, behaviors, and appearances of birds are touchstones throughout this book, connecting imagery, foreshadowing, and metaphors to the speaker’s interactions. This particular poem effectively ends the first section with a sense that the speaker is unearthing his power, and as a result his liberation.
There is a constant push and pull of forces within the speaker, as he grapples with helplessness, while trying to maintain hopefulness. Across the country, the widespread discrimination and prejudice against the gay community is taking its toll on the speaker. Even though he finds respite in quiet moments with friends and his husband, he still maintains an “obsession with darkness.” He likewise ruminates on the reparations he needs to give or to receive. But the peculiarity about forgiveness is “how when / we finally get around to it, the people / we most need to forgive are gone.” Whether this is a warning to readers, or a revelation, is left to be disclosed. The only certainty is that the sun will continue to rise: “Just like that, another morning.” There will be instances of utter heartbreak and destruction, but most days “idle along in birdsong / and fruit sauce, the hum of stingless bees.” A levity arrives in the lines of these later poems despite the speaker’s pronouncement that time is “a threadbare hammock” “how it threatens to unravel / and spill me across the broken ground.” The speaker becomes far more philosophical during the last half of the book, as he recognizes the divine, power, and royalty of hummingbirds and crows, long before his own status in the hierarchy becomes apparent. There is an urgency for the speaker to evolve for “Death, in the distance, rehearsing her song” is a background soundtrack to his actions and experiences, urging him forward in a hurry, yet allowing him to still question: “It’s not / too late, is it?”
Shannon Vare Christine is a poet, teacher, and critic living in Bucks County, PA. She is an alumnus of The Community of Writers and Tupelo Press 30/30 Project. Her poems are featured in various anthologies and publications. Additionally, her poetry reviews and literary criticism were published or are forthcoming in The Lit Pub, Cider Press Review, Sage Cigarettes, Compulsive Reader, The Laurel Review, Vagabond City, Tupelo Quarterly, The Los Angeles Review of Books, and Uirtus. Archived writing and more can be found at www.shannonvarechristine.com, her periodic newsletter, Poetic Pause, and on Instagram @smvarewrites.