Go ahead. Make me the ultimate bad example,
crouching naked now behind bushes, my breasts
hidden only by my crossed arms and a few fig leaves.
You would think I might have noticed them sooner,
something of my own I had that he had not,
yet all I’ve felt for weeks now is that gnawing
deep in my belly, desire for what I should not.
First wife, first mother, a God-dreamt helpmeet,
all accolades I took in stride, no pride on my part.
How then did I fall so far as to be immortalized
for all times as archetypal temptress? Weak enough
to trust a serpent, the serpent, and then sharing my sin
with him, the man who shared his rib—though I know
he had no choice—I blush to remember how quickly
when he blamed me or God—That woman
you gave me, he called me. I too turned and passed
the blame to that creature soon destined to crawl
on his belly for all time. Should I have spoken the truth?
Who could have blamed me if I had said, when asked
why, I was just so hungry, and the fruit looked so good.
-refers from the word “fruit” in Foster Cameron Hunter’s poem The Significance of Singing Fruit