The Original Apple

I met a muse who was born a goddess.
She played down her powers, until she met me, then
served me the eternal wine, promised barrels of honey.

The original apple, she said, was mislabeled:
a classic case of failed marketing.
The apple was nothing but the right breast of Eve,
a metaphor lost on uncreative men.
No woman cared to explain it.

She will guide me to light up the night sky,
showcase vast deserts,
bring distant mountains into focus.
She’ll show me how to shorten winter,
give flowers more color, denser scents,
and make water more refreshing.

She hopes I meet my heroine
among the newcomers,
before I deplete my energy
to the point of an empty tank,
or worse: stay untapped until I rust to death.

My heroine is out there but I’m not sure where
or which country she belongs to
or what century she comes from. What
books have her name. Whether
the ocean could preserve our fingerprints.
And what mountain houses our goats.
All I know is her eyes have a fire
that ignites inspiration.
Her lips flood the world
with peaceful goodnight wishes.

I will find the biggest forest on the planet,
set it on fire, and send my worries and doubts
via a rocket ship
crashing into its center.

My heroine is out there and I swear to furnish the night for her.
To serve her the spring untouched, on the margins of my long arms.

With her love, we will fill the front pages
of a history written for us,
tap into the talisman’s secret channels,
and rearrange the letters of alphabets.

We will open a school for all women,
and ask them to dress the poets
in rare silk or exotic feathers
from obscure islands, urge them
to melt all the world’s literature
and apply that ink to their eyelashes.
In the humanities department,
a new branch will be inaugurated.

If that is not commitment, the sky must be an illusion.
The mountains will need to close down the volcanoes,
flatten themselves, and absorb their dwellers’ meditations.

Meanwhile, I deliver kisses to make the world fertile again,
make the dew learn new greetings.
I distribute smiles for the fields to expand,
and for the oceans to reveal their inner wealth.
I plant promises for the music to outdo silence,
and for love to outshine the sun.

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