By Joanna Rosenberg
Whiskey has fingers, did you know that,
Eve murmured to Adam.
Stop it, he said. I hate whiskey.
Yes it still grabs me, she said,
it tucks me under.
Under what? he said.
Eve rose from the bed, naked,
swigged, swallowed, dribbled
down her chin.
You’re so messy, he said.
You make me smile.
She stood naked,
a new child.
She held her breasts in her hands.
I forget I’m a woman,
this drinking’s making me horny.
Oh Eve, Adam said, let’s just sleep.
Soon he slept, and Eve stood,
touching the midnight that bled through the blinds.
The moon on her breasts was warm,
oatmeal, a baby’s gaze, unforgiving.
Babies know what they’ve gotten into,
thought Eve. She hoped so.
Joanna Rosenberg is a playwright and poet living in Boston, Massachusetts. She is the recipient of the Denis Johnston Playwriting Award for her debut play, Stella Dreams of Trains. When she isn’t writing or reading, she enjoys yoga, rock climbing, and traveling.