Parable

Every morning the woman bathes 
in the river encircling the garden. 
She tries to remember the spot where 

she'd fallen from heaven, where she’d 
folded her wings and carefully hidden them 
from the damp and heat of this uncertain 

place. She supposes that what they call 
body in this world is a way to give 
the untethered a home, a sheath 

like that worn by jellyfish pulsing 
across the channel, their insides 
a generous peep show for which 

you don’t have to pay the price 
of a ticket. Come one, come all. 
What you see is what you get. 

Woman with mermaid tail, woman 
with bearded arms and graceful legs. 
The fruitful have daughters swinging 

in bowers under the trees, hair
honeyed sunrise, cheeks red with 
promise. In the fields, farmer’s

daughters weave a garland of snails
between the horns of a water buffalo. 
Daily they plead with the gods to look

the other way, to take no more 
interest in them than a tadpole 
writing its small hieroglyphic 

in shallow water. This is how it is 
when your life feels sometimes of no 
larger consequence than a window.