Snake was the nakedest creature in the garden.
The smartest, as well. Snake said to Woman:
“Is this for real? Did God tell you not to eat
from the trees in the garden?”
“We eat from them all—every tree in the garden—”
she said, “except the one with the pretty fruit,
that grows in the middle. God said
if we ate from that tree, we’d die.”
“Na-a . . .” said Snake. “You won’t die.
God’s afraid; god knows,
if you eat from that tree, your eyes
will open, and you’ll be gods too.”
And her eyes opened. Just like that.
She saw. She saw delight;
saw joy in that fruit. A dark worm
too, curled around the pit, but still,
what’s to say? Simple. She ate.
And eating, looked into the heart of God.
She saw the first lie, progenitor of all lies:
beautiful garden, dark worm curled.
She called her man, and fed him
the fruit, and O-oh, it was good.
It would be so easy, after this.
They’d lie to god, first—
he had taught them, after all; and they
were gods too, now. Her man
would lie to her, and she to him;
they’d lie to their children,
and god would lie to them all,
again, and again, and again.
And she and her man
would go spinning outward
into the chaos
of a hundred thousand years
of lies. But Snake was no god,
and Snake would never lie.
And for that, they all
could hate him.