Eden
by JENNIFER BAME



They had been warned not to form any opinions
About themselves.  The new sun sat at the shoulders
Of the gates, the sky—blue, bronze, immaculate,
An opened palm.  Their bodies were like muslin,
Glowing white and empty.  And they were hungry.
They walked naked like two birds,
Feet barely grazing the spiny lawn, barely pricking
The thinning grass blades that pointed up and away. 
Their legs moved long like trees. They wanted
To see everything: the red freckled frogs,
The tulips and lilies, the painted hillside extending
Toward God, the scuttle bugs that fingered their toes,
The mouse, the brown spotted-owl. 
The night appeared like a flickering bulb,
And they sat below a branch that smelled of sugar. 
They wanted something they could not name. 
JENNIFER BAME is originally from Miami, Florida, and is currently  living in Harlem, New York, where she is a recent graduate of Columbia University's School of the Arts with an M.F.A. in Creative Writing, Poetry (2009).  She also has a B.A. in English and Sociology from the University of Florida in Gainesville, Florida.  She is currently working as Assistant to the Deans at an all-girls independent school in New York City.