The Garden of Eden

Unfiltered lust hurtles through the
rose-tinted goggles of a
first kiss, first outing,
a week of firsts—
tongue against clit and
sweat-caressed thigh, the
tang of a rough and passionate
kiss, our bodies full.

Earthen desire
caked with mud and seed
comes from the flesh, radiates
outward
like a heat-seeking missile
grabbing hair and lips alike.

There is no running from this:
solid work, hands in the ground,
a trowel between leather covered fingers,
and the bees
ever an indicator of a successful garden
come to rest.
Bumbles and yellow jackets and honey
take their place
eating out hollow fruit corpses,
sleeping in the rain on lavender plants,
and drifting among sunflowers.

There is no label for this kind of work,
the kind that gets under your fingernails
and cleans them off after.

When the season comes,
I harvest the pomegranates
and let him pluck out the seeds.