remember a time before
weathervanes, before lawns,
before the sun made dew
sizzle on leaves.
They giggled at Eve
as she reached for the fruit,
unquivered their arrows.
In the paintings, their knees
are the color of unnamed
roses; dark purple, damp mauve,
bruises swaddled in dirt.
They puff their cheeks
like little pagan things,
fat as drowned dolls
thumbing their noses
at whatever won’t be saved.
Christopher McCormick
Christopher McCormick is a recent graduate of the MFA in creative writing program at Bowling Green state University. His work appears in West Trade Review, Thin Air Magazine, and Beaver Magazine among other publications. He currently writes and teaches in the Midwest.
