Had I Been There, Had It Been Me

Always the script, the dramatic comma, the pointed ellipsis, half turn, beat, the exit itself as punctuation. Let’s say the back wall of the house fell away: first cracks down the plaster, then it crumbles to reveal seventy-five rows of spectators. That’s the explanation: they’ve been there all along; I mulled blocking on a blind impulse, but it turns out a correct one. Maybe someone is making love to me (in the 19th century sense): do I throw off his hand, exit with pithy wit? Or simply submit to it: the sappy moment which will, I know, have to be resisted in some later scene. Had I been there, had it been me, I would have said— and the audience would have been moved to applaud. Astounding improvisation! I’d have walked right up to the lawyer, the bank manager, and I’d have said— or, if it was me, it would never have gotten that far; I’d have turned to her and said— So I am contemplating in its shade an apple tree. Haven’t I often done that? So why not me? Late August, the leaves like arrowheads, dark green, waxy, punctuated by apples—constellations of apples. There I see The Hunter, bow pulled back, the apples of his quiver fixed with perfect aim: William Tell, daughter across the tree, of apples herself, poised with a perfect fruit above her head: wet tension of its surface, red skin that kisses the sun. And this perfect tree. This perfect tree in which every stamen was touched by pollen, in which every flower thickened to fruit: tree that knows by its own example perfection. In each cluster, five apples bunch as tight as chambers of a human heart. Had I been there, had it been me—and the slither up the trunk brought my attention low, the rippling body sliding along the trunk, I who have been so good all these years at resisting, and giving in, and resisting— I’d have heard the melodious hiss, seen the glinting tongue, its fork invading the region of my heart, the archer in that perfect canopy aiming right at me, I who have given in to desire when the stakes were much lower, could I resist those movements, how fully the serpent’s hiss gives itself over to simile: I am like, I am like, I am like. . . . Seen it before, mister. I’d have sighed in an aside, glanced up at the sky, deadpanned the audience, and said— Or had my lover brought the apple. For years I have told them not to burn money on me. But to bring only this, to hold it out with a silent smile as they enter the house, down center on the stage of the palm. No better way to say I love you. So why not me? Early October, the outsize hunger after running, and my lover brings it over. I recognize on his breath the scent of the serpent, and the apple, the one forbidden thing. Deep voice, dark eyes, silent smile and perfect apple; only midday draped across his body, tight, alert, alive to the moment of sin. And reaching out to take it in my hand. Who better than me? Let the tension linger, let the audience pulse with anticipation. We touch over the forbidden fruit. The stage lights dim, and I look at him, and I look at him, and raise my eyebrows, and say— But even so, wouldn’t I end up here again, always here? Angels crossing swords behind me, shame clothing me, conflating all my losses—the loss of God, the loss of apples, how they expand inside to fill up hunger. Maybe there are no words here, just the sky blackening with anger. Maybe words wouldn’t be useful here anyway. Consider a scrim: the night sky blotted of constellations; nothing but gray swirls of wrath. And project against it a man’s silhouette: head bent, empty- handed, the memory of apples imprinted on his wordless tongue, and around his neck, loss—like a cowbell—announcing his presence to the fallen world.