Lost in Eden

He
speaks of himself obliquely, in symbols,
the whole impression being a verbal wave of the hand
as if He were blurring his own edges.
He
won’t let Her in, although She may knock several times,
and peer through locked windows,
the book of the male psyche written,
inscrutably,
in runes quite contrary to the grammar She is taught.

She
speaks of herself vehemently, in torrents,
the whole confession being a tidal wave across his land
as if She were drowning in what She alleges.
She
won’t let him win, although He may be innocent of the crimes,
and fear what arises from the shadows,
the scroll of the female psyche written,
unexpectedly,
in words quite contrary to the script He believed He had wrought.

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