God made the world in six days.
And woman, she came from a rib of man.
So, today, here I stand with a hand full of sand
and a mind as clear as a summer’s sky.
Tell me, what am I to do with a hand full of sand?
Build a castle with a moat all around?
Then, I will order the trumpeters to play as I stride
as I think, how I will conquer the man in the moon.
Tell me, how am I to conquer this man who assumes
that my glances in the night are a fixture on he?
If I reach for the sky, I pull apples from trees,
but the Lord did not make me with wings to fly.
So, I close my eyes – pull the curtains tight,
for the battle I foster is played out of sight
and I splendour at the peace of my lonely life
as I dance in my skin to nature’s delight.
I am woman, I am woman, a woman again.
I am woman, I am woman, a woman again.
Hear me clapping my hands to joys of my womb.
See the moat of my castle as a bleeding wound.
Adam is running from the river red.
(Why is Adam afraid?)
The doves are flying on this lovely day.
It is life I bring forth and not his end.
I birth our kind, again, and again.
Onto the seventh day – a woman’s rest.
She opens her eyes to confront her demise,
but the man in the moon is suddenly shy,
for he looks towards me and covers his eyes.
Why is the man in the moon so surprised?
Can he see my form in the light of tonight?
“I am Eve, I am Eve.” I call out to he.
“I am Eve, I am Eve.” I call out to he.
All I can hear
is his quivering breath
as I stretch out my arms
in a naked address.
Poetry © Linda Cull
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