Adam and Eve as Fire and Water

The first thing he had to teach her was how to break

a line. She had a tongue like every silver thing

(minnow, brook, icicle he named,

ermine and salmon) but lacked structure.

Here, he said, snapping his fingers,

here, and her thought cracked

with a puff of steam, leaving sharp white ends.

She licked the sap from parted words.

Water covers fire.

Fire makes water flee.

They were stones whirled at the end

of a cord, flying apart, falling together.

He carried her from place to place

in the garden. She rotated in his hands

like a piece of fruit,

then slid through his fingers,

re-formed at his feet, a mirror pool,

raised herself into a wave, enveloped him.

For a moment he guttered,

pulling down around his hot center,

then he found the oxygen in her simple form,

broke the bonds, fed.