Eve’s Poet-Hood
by Robert Savino Oventile
If she sees the instant seizing her
as her breeze-imbibing author
who, by warding her, provokes her
to look away toward a tree anew,
If her ruby-scaled witness
(of coal interior, granted)
suggests, on eating the tree’s fruit,
she will de-dis-resemble said author,
If, in her disarmed sight,
her claustrophobic
partner’s glazed
getaway gaze implores, “Yes,”
And if, simple, sensuous, and passionate,
poetry implies touch torched,
then, in Eve’s ward,
who loves Eve’s poet-hood best?
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