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VACATION ISLAND
Some worshipped a stone .
wind-sculpted into nose and jaw and brow.
Others were certain that
safe passage to the next world
was as tangled up as the broken bow
in the torn, flapping sails
of a washed-up sailboat.
For every one that believed
shrieking gulls were angels
was another who saw the white-spume hand of god
in waves that slashed against
the mighty rocks
that even more cast in the role
of a south sea island Stonehenge.
I combed the beach each morning,
stepping tentatively through
the sea-grass altar,
minding I did not disturb
the apostle crabs, the sandy chancel
where shark bone crucifixes
stacked on holy shells.
Cold waves rapped against my toes
like street corner preachers
eager to convert me
but when everything was religion
how was I to choose?
Ahead of me, two men were sacrificing a fish
they'd scooped up in their net.
A woman was praying
to a pelican balanced on a buoy icon.
Three children thought I was
Satlombah, the Briny Redeemer.
An old lady shunned me as
Blafgir, the dark green lord of the kelp.
All I was looking for was a kiosk
where I could buy some post cards
to send off home.
I finally settled on a message in a bottle.
"Having a wonderful time.
Wish you were here."
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ADAM AND EVE AND YOU AND ME
So these are our true ancestors,
man and woman cast in bronze,
he naked, though his genitals
are as modest as a babe's,
and she covered by hair and fig-leaf,
prudish even then when none can see.
And he's handing her the apple
though not like I'd give you
a piece of fruit.
There's portent in this transaction.
You can see it in the round brown eyes.
God's warning is still ringing in his ear
I'm sure, but a woman wants what she wants.
And that's a fine serpent, exquisitely molded,
long and slithering even if its body joins
her waist, his shoulder.
But look at that perfect snake head.
His people rely on light effects
to make them real enough for consumption
but that sculptor sure knew his reptiles.
It's the Fall of Man of course,
that grand old artistic default
when Madonna and child's not cutting it.
But you and I stand before it,
admiring this source of all human sin
as if it were just another work of art:
a Renoir maiden stepping into a bath,
a Degas ballerina.
"He does a nice temptation," you say.
"Excellent," I agree, "though his corruption
of innocence could have used a steadier hand."
Then it's on to the next display,
a collection dug up from some Roman ruins.
"There's something sweet about a headless woman," I sigh.
And you say, "I'm quite taken by that dickless man"
Now if only this had been the Garden Of Eden.
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