The Garden of Eden is in shambles. Old bones litter the brown grass. The chairs where we sit in summer are overturned and damp from melting snow. There are deep holes in each pen and the pens themselves simply need to be torn down.
Yet, I come into the Garden to sit in the faded wooden red chair I found on the roadside.
I come in, in shambles myself. Tattered, dilapidated Eve, gone to ruin.
Before I ventured out to stump in and close the gate made of part of a bunk bed frame behind me, I looked in the mirror. I took my new lipstick out of the pocket of my sweat pants and tinted my lips and made little dots of color on each cheek, trying to rub a little youth back into my face.
I throw a stick for my dowager Golden and her boisterous grand daughter. A wind has risen out of the west, the dogs stop and nose the air.
I look out into the taller dried grass and see two pairs of tufted sable ears. Eve and her foxes, an afternoon washed in grey, earth to horizon to sky.
I sing a few bars of Visi D’Arte to them all… I live for art, I live for love.
Then I sing, Aye Corazon, que te vas, para nunca volver… heart, where are you going, to never return…. so much in disrepair, so much disarray, so many things that should be organized and put in their own place.
I have tried to arrange my hair, my belongings, to group the animal dishes on a shelf next to the medicines, to keep like things together, going so far one year as to to try to organize the thousands of nails in various Folger’s jars in the shop.
I try to arrange my self, into a put-together woman at the top of her game. But this results in theatre. My exterior cracks; revealed is this broken down version of Eve.
This one’s heart still burns in ardor; she still desires, weeps, sees– she is voluble.
But she puts too much lipstick on her mouth, believing that she has only imagined and invented God, or that God never made a garden: that a garden grew, that the earth pulled itself together and orbits the sun because that is the nature of a planet: to orbit and turn.
She believes in something, even that chaos is beautiful, or she would not have come here to sit in the faded chair, whistling to the foxes to come closer, inviting the wind to undo her arrangements, the rain to cleanse her hands, the ascending moon at dusk to illuminate a fallen world.