What will we think of next? Even paradisewas invented, perfect gardensurrounded by high walls, rusty nailsupholding the big gate’s NO TRESPASSING sign.The cookie-cut homes, ageless neighbors,flowers that will never know the dirt of graves.But everything has its opposite—we invented that, too. The other sideof the fence, in the cold, wherewe cover ourselves in skins of deadanimals, sharpen our daggers, and want.History will say it was the engine of envythat drove us off the cliffs of discontent.Not the ache in a mother’s breastas she buries another child, bells oflaughter no longer cresting from the crib.No. They’ll look at our knees and think,How filthy. From their towers, they’ll jokehow small we seem. Like ants.Even our language separates us.We both have a word for water,but paradise does not know the word drown.They heard us singing and did not noticethe silhouette on the pyre.They eyed us dancing under June’s full moonand said, They must be happy.Who can blame them for believingwhat they saw? Bodiesholding each other in the night,against the darkness.I have no excuse.I was there, and I was also dancing.