The Ballad of Mother Eve

The Ballad of Mother Eve

 
There was a garden and a boy
Both awash in verdant joy
But only one with tousled hair
And only one with Cacky Bear.
Cacky Bear with glassy eyes
Reflected all the cloudy skies
As seen mirrored somewhat true
In the boy’s own eyes of blue.
Cacky’s fur worn old by childhood hurt
Pressed against fuzzy pajama shirt;
Tightly tightly was Cacky held
Tightly tightly nightly terror felled
And Cacky whispered “my son my son”
“Always always we are one”.

The stream passed coolly by their feet
They did not drink despite their thirst
They feared the stranger by the sweep
The woman who said “I am the first”.
Her skin was soft to see
Touching proved it true
And milky breast received
Hungry glances through and through.
Crossing legs showed ample cushy lap
She invited him to dally
She invited him to suckle at the tap
Where life and love may sally.
And all the while the boy hugged so tight
That Cacky couldn’t breathe
Yet Cacky wished him further might
When she said, he said, they said “Call me Mother Eve”.

And mother surely she could be
Her body lived it seemed to feed him
And was far from any forbidden tree
And the boy sang out a feeding hymn.
But Eve snatched away his voice
Pinched it underneath her finger
She offered up a different choice
Where skin on skin sought to linger.
Her breast heaved with pulsing shriek
And she leaned in with dark’ning sigh
When the boy offered up questions meek
She said, he said, they said “Oh my son”
“Father asked us to Multiply”.

But subtraction was hard ennough
In fractions everything was tough
And Cacky surely couldn’t see
Any use in multiplicity
So his glassy mirror eyes
Dimpled under brief surprise.
And when the boy shivered slow
Cacky’s head shook and echoed “no”.
Nothing made a drop of sense
And Cacky needed recompense.
He told her “there is nothing without fun”
“I have spoken, we are one”.

Leaping up Eve smiled with speed
Her hungry manners tame
She would put aside the time to feed
To teach the boy a game.
The best games were those where children learn
Cacky could only agree
But maintained glassy eyes most stern
And kept one open for the tree.
But Eve paid him no heed
And put to them both a riddle
From her lap an object was freed
And laid to rest across her middle.
It was long, unbending, yet not brittle
Squishy as a violent line could be
Yet on the end was different mettle
The tip was all the boy could see.
It was soft with beads of creeping water
The lips of satin op’ning out
And pinking petals grew ever hotter
As color shot toward the open spout.
Its petals were all about the garden bed
The boy felt his hands move swift
He dully heard the words they said:
“A rose, a rose”
“Consider it a gift”.

And in the spots of the sun’s soft dapple
It had none of the curves of an apple.

Pricked. Pricked. Pricked. Pricked. Pricked. Pricked. Pricked. Pricked. Pricked.

The boy still squeezed Cacky fast
As the blood soacked him in his last
Glassy eyes see only blood of boy
Blood of bear, blood of toy
Bleeding from that deadly prick
Bleeding from that deadly trick
Holding boy close Cacky screams
Mourning lost and broken dreams…
“I am killed!” Cacky said
No one heard; Cacky’s dead.

“You are a green apple picked” they said
“Ravished I can only suppose”
“You are a child tricked” they said
“By a lovely little rose”
“So I am hungry and you must eat” they said
“So I am thirsty and you must drink”
“We’ll meet in the middle at the teat” they said
“We’ll feed each other with the stink”.
“And so we finish out my song”
Eve glances at you silly boy
“And you will sing the rest so strong”
Yet still you mourn your broken toy.
“All that remains is the chorus”
“Repeat it softer and softer still”
“Sing with a voice most joyous”
“But never ever get your fill”.

Hallelujah, Christ almighty, pound your feet and beat my soul
Clap your hands and bind my body, I must repay what others stole
Hallelujah, Jesus save me, save me from the sins of men
Come and find me, I’m in the garden, I’ve been waiting since time began.
I must cherish all the pretty things, hold them away from others’ scorn
But oh Jesus, god damn me Jesus…
How could I have known to mind the thorns?

Originally written 7/28/2003