Her casket is a length of oak,
swathed in kudzu and poison ivy,
and her body decays uncovered, 
exposed. 

In her palm lies a fruit, 
indistinguishable from its own rot,
encoiled in serpentine vines
that bury themselves into bone
and turn dust back into dust.

No name is etched
into the bark of the tree where she lies,
though most who would view her
would know her—love her—

but some

some would name her whore.

Her fault,
they would hiss
as their Garden blazed behind them
and a long train of bitter souls
was escorted
from the gates of paradise. 

They would console her husband
as they passed,
offer him kindness and condolences
when behind his back,
in his hand, so much larger than hers,
he held the last piece 
of the fruit
they shared. 

Her casket is a length of rope
passed down to her daughters
and theirs
and theirs
and theirs
on and on until the twine
is frayed and bloodied,
mended in places, needing further repair.

As we pass it, some of us whisper,
her fault
and gesture behind ourselves
to the daughter before them
but the rest of us,
the ones who listened to the stories we were told,
forgive her.

Even as blood drains from our own bodies
to feed our daughters and sons, 
to placate the moon and the Son,
we understand,
that whatever that snake promised her
had to have been better
than being naked and alone
with a man
you only thought you knew.