The archangel
held a blazing sword
edge up.

Adam strolled along it
as he sketched Eve’s hair
from memory,

as he sketched the craze of blood
he recalled seeing
on Abel’s skin.

Walked that edge
every day for hours
never looking away

from charcoal and page.
Walked that edge
while placing his feet surely

between flames, courting burns
and severance but never closing
the deal.  Over his shoulder

I could see the outline
of the Garden.  He never
turned his head toward

or away from it.  All he could see,
apparently, was Eve’s hair and Abel’s
death.  Never a thought

for Eden, never a single line
laid down for Cain, not a glimpse
in any picture he made of the archangel,

the fire, the blade,
his pivot when he reached the end
and began to walk back.

Here was the first artist, raised
from loss and grief, enjoying the luxury
of selective memory.

As for the second artist?  I stood there wondering,
watching my father walking and mourning,
then turned and began to walk

east, back home to exile.
On the way, I made this.
This. I made this

and that’s how I came to art:
I had acted, I had suffered,
yet something still needed to be said.

Been a while since
I posted notice with
a small but bright flyer:

“Henceforth let it be known
that this S. O. B.
surrenders any compulsion
to seek and attract love.
From now on, if it finds him,
he’ll accept it
and if it doesn’t
he’ll be cool with that,
even
if it’s right there,
within reach.”

Pasted up that notice,
sat back,
waited.  

Still waiting today — 
more desperately but
as still as stone;

though the old flyers
are wind ripped, rain blotted,
and not much visible,

I am a man of my lonely,
ill-advised words and compulsion
is too easily misread from outside

to move at all upon any tug
I might feel from anyone,
any tug at all.