I never saw the thorns
that morning we returned from Chicago
and we loaded all our bags
into the mini van
with the busted window
in a light drizzle
under overcast skies,
like the rain had chased our train
the entire 300 miles home.

I never saw the thorns
and I never saw the fruit
that dangled right in front of you
that dangled there in my face,
and you were off.

The serpent came back
into our home that night;
that old dragon,
like he had done before.

And in my shock,
what did I do?
Everything you said
and cut you loose
in my own vindictive way.

I watched him coil around you
and heard the lies form on your tongue
as easily as they had in the past
and I wondered who's responsible
for cleaning all the weeds up
and the broken tricycles that sit under the tree.

We lost our Eden that night, my love.

In the bedroom I pretended to try and sleep,
listening to New Order's 1963
until you crawled into bed;
together we wept
and I begged you not to listen to him
or the lies you'd told yourself
about blowing up our life,
and briefly you seemed to agree
until the delusion grabbed you even tighter
and I knew you'd be gone by morning.

Wake up my Eve,
there is still time.

Our Eden is gone,
but there's still a Heaven to be had.
The monarch I just saw fluttering by our window
reminded me how she came about
from just a Little Caterpillar
when to the world she was as good as dead.