Eve

She speaks of orchards as if
she has seen many
She sucks slurping sections
Spanish oranges as if
style is superfluous to
all the smoke she's made from
candied cigarettes under groves of leathered wood
She tends fruit as if
tending fruit and making love in springtime
were her only duties to the crown

I wait, first to admit
I'm an apple girl nectar doesn't
interest me and I like
words that rhyme better
though I too
tend
to fruits
yellow red green and gold
richly deeply dark in the February night

She'll not return even when
she's run out of Catalina Clementines
and things to suffer for.

And I wait,
crimson fruit round in hand
on top of walls
in corners
under beds
for a fraction section of attention as if
I need to say something in more than words.