Ode to the Tiniest Dessert Spoon in All Creation

In a new translator’s version of Genesis, there’s no Adam. No serpent. In paradise, I don’t bleed. Fig leaf-free girl, dear God, I say as we converse fluently without tongues, joined as two spice-drenched beloveds in a song of songs, could we please ask the gardener to plant a pomegranate grove by a stand of non-fruiting olive cultivars, which don’t bloom and aren’t so messy?