Discourse in Eden
`I think I'll call it giraffe--
He speaks: she smiles; is
always smiling, but won't
discriminate--just
watches the wide garden
with boundless pleasure.
`Giraffe!' he says, emphatic,
making her look; then sighs
`It isn't easy, having to find
so many different names.
Lively now, she offers help:
he's unconvinced.
`Well really it was me God told
to name the creatures...but p'rhaps
you could try something small...
`But my ideas are large.'
He takes her hand,
`We'll see...my love...tomorrow...'
Tomorrow she basks in sunlight,
grass tickling her toes,
`Where is giraffe?' he asks.
`Why here,' she says `somewhere here.'
`Nonsense! look there--
(finger stabbing) there, there,
there's no giraffe.' `But,
surely there's enough.'
`That's not the point--he's lost
if I can't see him, lost,
or somewhere else.'
So Adam goes off, questing.
And though the sky's still blue,
the leaves densely green,
there is a blank
a space within creation--
inscribed giraffe, it signifies
the other, absence, lack.
Eve feels, for the first time,
hollow...bespoken
(above her head on the branch
but ripe to a hand's reach)
the fruit shines,
round, substantial.
From Antipodes
copyright Jennifer Strauss
(Australia)