|Wendy Taylor Carlisle||The 2River View, 7.4 (Summer 2003)|
You’ve heard the story too, I guess, about the serpent and the kiwi—or maybe they told you it was an apple, a Granny Smith, a Red Delicious. Well, no matter, they’re wrong. No Python. No Pippin. There was a garden, of sorts, a path through the lush vegetation, the pools and runnels, but none of it had the discipline of a garden. And in case you think I was just sitting there adoring Him, I had my little job to do, to make a name for everything—Maximum Taxonomy, that was what it was. So when I woke after one of my all too infrequent naps, to find one more thing to name, her is what I thought. But she was so interested, so hang-on-a-guy’s-every-word, I have to admit I found her adorable. Who doesn’t love being worshipped?
I touched her just to see what she was like—I have to know the feel of skin, the temperature to name them right—and for the heft of her, I took her in my arms. Right there she twisted into snake! I didn’t mean for it to end the way it did, but only just to certify her, don’t you see, as woman, never as man’s woe—only a simple, backboned thing.
And then she said my name.
From the beginning, I was his extra bone.