Cristina J. Baptista
As Adam slept, his rib was taken,
the dozen pairs shaken,
perhaps left with one less thoracic vertebrae,
like sections of an orange freed
from their binding—a book loosed of pages.
Sometimes, an orange is called “apple from China,”
this speculation a reminder of that first Garden.
In Portugal, my grandfather grafted oranges to other trees,
all flesh a playground for creation,
his hands as nimble as any other’s.
God closed up the hole in Adam’s side,
it is written, like punching
a fist through water and watching
the space refill when the hand is withdrawn.