A poem from, or for a distant Eden, all
depends on your direction.
In free passion, we agreed to conceive a child named Eden who
will never know his ancestry.
We will move our separate ways, but I
know soon you will return to your husband and his security.
Soon the romance will end, and you
will forget about nakedness wanting
to buy maternity clothes for the two of you.
In crisis, you will deny my existence.
He is already calling it his child,
knowing more about possession than I. We move from our bed.
You refusing to make it, and I refusing to lie in it.