The wasp crosses Eve’s breast, testing leg-stick on Rodin’s bronze fingerprints,
and the woman concerns herself only with this:
the raising of arms and a knee, forever, the burden
eased by a protrusion of alloy beneath her left foot.
These limbs, wielded by Eve against all she now knows, cradle the wasp's nest.
Banished, nature finds a way to her;
and you come to look,
after the apple, and before
she is stung.