She considereth a field, and
     buyeth it:  with the fruit of her
     hands she planteth a vineyard.

Fields fall back 
into the rooms of my hands,
the kitchen of my palm where food
emerges, spicy and rich:  slice this knuckle
and find good rye bread, grains large enough 
to taste.  Drink from this vein, 
a rich Merlot. 

     She is like the merchants’ ships;
     she bringeth her food from afar.

I open my fingers in sunlight.  Can you see fruit ripening,
the story of vineyards emerging from my bones?

Emily Wall

I open the book that he has given us: 
a history of ourselves, 
women of the garden and the desert, 
fallen sparrows on the yellow leaves. 

In the beginning, ink and palimpsest 
bring her into language: 
Eve covering her nakedness 
among the lilies and the roses. 
Once out of the garden she is 
Mary ascending: draped in blue, 
framed in gold leaf. 

He sits by candlelight, outlines an ink tatoo, 
his name burned on the vellum of her skin. 
Beneath his pen, she occupies a gilded place 
at the margin of the page his words have filled. 

In the end, she lies on the paper 
like a golden doll, her hands drowned 
azalea blossoms in his hands. 
In another moment he will reach for a 
metaphor, blame fate, wait for her to stumble 
once more into the garden. 

I set the book aside and vow to imagine 
red mountains, indigo ink: 
color to remark the body, blot the past. 

Alexis Easley