In the Garden of Eden for Seventeen Minutes and Five Seconds
by Marianne Peel  

She grabs my hand
and guides me down the narrow passage
to her basement art studio.  A whole wall
floats an ocean of psychedelic acrylic creatures,
jitterbugging seahorses,
Texas-two-stepping star fish,
all between the borders of cinder blocks.  

Let’s smoke a joint, she tells me.  

And I remember being in another basement                         
in 1975, just after Saigon fell. Choppers lifted
whoever pushed their way to the front
up and out of the red clay of Vietnam.
From a couch with broken ribs, we watch
the rooftop ascension
on 60 Minutes.  

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida grinds
on the turntable.  A dizzying riff on a loop,
spiraling between our smoke rings.
Eddie and I make out.
Our adolescent limbs fumble,
ferreting out whatever innocent skin
we can find.  
During the two-and-a-half-minute
drum solo by Ron Bushy, Eddie tugs
on the fringe of my cutoff jeans.
Unravels me
as he runs his fingers along the edges
of my embroidered peasant blouse.                                       
Fueled by this rock n roll that feels
so much like a hymn, I watch
the iron butterfly of me
shimmy out of its cocoon,
abandon its weight,
take flight to the cob-webbed rafters.