Before Eve Was Obedient

Before the rib was broken twice,

before the apple found its teeth,

there was a garden full of questions

and a Father tired of praise.

He made a man from breathing clay—

adam from adama, dust with pulse—

a grown body with a child’s mind,

following God like a shadow at noon.

“Why is the sun yellow?”

“For light.”

“But why?”

“For life.”

“But why?”

The river flowed to quiet thirst,

the sea held salt like a secret,

and God, omniscient, all-seeing,

longed for five minutes of silence.

Yet kings, even new-made kings,

grow lonely among obedient beasts.

“I need a pair,” Adam cried,

“a queen, or at least a friend.”

So from the architecture of bone

God borrowed a rib—

not from above to rule,

not from below to kneel,

but from the side.

She woke radiant and unimpressed.

“Who are you?”

“Your master.”

She laughed like wind through leaves.

“I have my own head, my own heart.”

She walked the garden alone,

naming herself sufficient.

He called her wrong.

God called her strong.

And so a second rib was taken—

symmetry in exchange for obedience.

Version two: softer voice, lowered eyes,

history polished for comfort.

You know what followed—

serpent, fruit, awakening.

But somewhere beyond the record,

the first woman still walks—

not cursed, not fallen,

but remembered in whispers:

the one who would not bow,

the goddess before the myth,

the question that would not end.