Divining Paradise

On Sunday morning, I squirmed 
in the pew between my mother and father. 
My crinoline petticoat scratched
the skin beneath my baby blue dress. 
I crossed my ankles at the lace line 
of my white socks,
jiggled one black patent leather shoe. 
The preacher brayed 
about the bride of Christ,
the church. Those outside 
would burn in the lake of fire. 
I prayed for my grandmother.
On Sunday mornings, she stayed home 
to fry chicken and bake red devil cakes.

On Monday morning, I played 
beneath the giant shade tree 
in my grandmother’s yard. I did not see the snake, 
did not hear it hiss,
did not feel it slithering toward me. 
Queen, my grandmother’s guard dog, 
snapped up that snake.
She shook it like a dust mop.  
Grabbing a hoe, 
my grandmother chopped off the serpent’s head,
doused it with lighter fluid, and struck a match.
The snake’s dark flesh melted away
as snakelets spun from its womb 
till they were consumed in the flames.

On Monday night, I slept the sleep of children
who dream of the people who love them.
Dressed as torch-bearing goddesses,
my grandmother and I walked a rocky path. 
No street of gold beneath our feet, 
we plucked pears from an evergreen tree. 
In our paradise, 
we spoke with no talking serpent, 
tasted the flesh of no apple,

heard the voice of no man.

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