Eve at the Fig Tree

She stood alone. The orchard did not breathe.
No wind, no law, no shadow pulled her down.
Just figs that bulged like lungs beneath a sheath
Of skin too thin to hold the lives they’d grown.

One held a hunger shaped like foreign roads,
One - quiet rooms with dust that never stirred.
Another trembled, wet with unborn oaths,
Its ripeness pressing full against the word.

The apple offered one clean strike of fate.
A single path, a single flame to keep.
But figs grew loud. They split beneath their weight,
And bled the versions of her she’d not reap.

No angels wept. No warnings split the trees.
The garden watched her not decide, then dim.
The figs grew dark. She sank down at the knees,
Her body filling with what could have been.

The ground absorbed her slowly, thought by thought.
A thousand nameless daughters passed her by.
The fruit she’d never touched began to rot.
She never fell, she only failed to try.

Now roots recall the shape she didn’t choose.
She lingers where the futures learn to fade.
Not punished, only hollowed by the bruise
Of standing still until the garden moved.