By Eve Grubin

Eve slipped from its arced ridge—
the only body part
you don’t
do evil with:

the eye, the hand,
might beg
corruption;

the ribs are modest
shy crests, ticklish,
an open fan,
not quite sexual, yet not puritan:

delicate accordion
—yawn, moan—
soul breathes through its comb.

From the author’s book, Morning Prayer.