This morning, when I opened Linda Pastans Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems 1968-1998, I found the fly-leaf tucked into the book at this poem. I remember the late nighttime hour, after which, awake and sleepy, I turned it down. Mother Eve Of course she never was a child herself, waking as she did one morning full grown and perfect, with only Adam, another innocent, to love her and instruct. There was no learning, step-by-step, to walk, no bruised elbows or knees-- no small transgressions. The was only the round, white mound of the moon rising, which could neither be suckled nor leaned against. And perhaps the serpent spoke in a womans voice, mothering. Oh, who can blame her? When she held her own child in her arms, what did she make of that new animal? Did she love Cain too little or too much, looking down at her now flawed body as if her rib, like Adams, might be gone? In the litany of naming that continued for children instead of plants, no daughter is mentioned. But generations later there was Rachel, all mother herself, who knew that bringing forth a child in pain is only the start. It is losing them (and Benjamin so young) that is the punishment.
Posted on: Mon, 17 Mar 2014 12:15:10 +0000
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