Odor plume, mellifluous humming, thick syrup


made from nectar, calyx: cave of bees—
wild Eden come to this: a room next to a similar room
where women are cared for. Where are the men?
my mother asks in a tone suggesting God's interference.
There was one who gardened, his head bent
over a bed of roses; between her and him only a window
patched with glass emblems of stars. She tapped,
he smiled. Then he was sent away, but left for her
a drawing of a horse, pawing with front hooves
the bottom of the yellow page of paper
torn from a notebook; otherwise motionless
as if in amber. Her daughter-in-law taped it to the wall.
She broods on darkness as it seals her room,
then broods on dawn, as if they were the same—
time before the archangel came to punish
when Eve and Adam swayed on Eden's gate
and couldn't yet leave.