On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone Quotes

“Greenery

Juniper, Oracle Oak and Hop Tree,
California Buckeye, and Elderberry.
Pacific Dogwood and the pale green Eucalyptus,
Quaking Aspen and Flannelbush.

raw, sprouting, lush
green love
green with envy
green with youth
green with early spring

olive, emerald, avocado,
greenlight
ready, set, GO!
greenhouse, greenbelts, ocean kelp,
cucumber, lizard, lime and forest green,
spruce, teal, and putting green.

green-eyed, verdant, grassy, immature
green and leafy
green half-formed
tender, pleasant, alluring
temperate
freshly sawed
vigorous
not ripe
yet
promising

greenbriar, greenbug, green dragon
greenshanks running along the ocean's edge
greenlings swimming
greenlets singing
greengage plums
green thumbs
greenhorns
and greenflies-
how on earth
amid sage swells
kelly hillsides
and swirls of firs
did I ever find
that green of
hers?

holly, drake, and brewster green,
pistachio, shamrock, serpentine
terre verde, Brunswick, tourmaline,
lotus, jade, and spinach green:
start to finish
lowlands to highs
no field, no forest, no leaf, no blade
can catch the light or trap the shade;
no earthly tones will ever rise
to match the green
enchantment
of her eyes.”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“Harvest

Do not let a woman with a sexy rump deceive you
with wheedling and coaxing words; she is after your barn.
-Hesiod

Shall we gather the sunset
pluck what is ripe
harness the cicada's song?
Even if this isn't the season
of new love
let us remember the buds
and reap what we can.
No crop is too small.
No harvest too lean.
The grain will yield.
So scatter and slash
call in the cows
and let us milk them all dry.
Plow as you will.
Bulldoze away.
Why not make every season
our season
each day
our day
to till and tease
to clear and seed
to plant and replant
as we please.
Come
my sweet smell of hay
do not be deceived
by Hesiod.
He says that I am
after your barn.
I want the whole
fucking farm!”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“When Straight Women Flirt …With Me

She sits on my lesbian lap
both of us too much wine
arm around my shoulder
hair carelessly tossed from her face
her full weight light upon me
sweet sweat rising in the noisy night
her laugh laps up the smoke
her lean close
her breathing flirts with mine
small confessions of girlhood slumber parties spill out and
into my ear long unspoken memories
of pairing up with other girls to practice kissing
she tosses excitement of kitten innocence
in my face
roller skate caresses
first tastes of delicious shudder

first caress and innocence innocence innocence only in a sense
implication of guilt guilt guilt
the unsaid in her sentence
she tosses excitement
her breathing breathless breathing breath breast
breasts breasts breasts oh flirt with my
around my shoulder lean close close close
both of us taste too much
too much to touch ankles thighs fingers ribs eyes ears toes
her arm my shoulder my shoulder her arm alarm disarm
dare me dare me dare me
no harm my shoulder her arm my shoulder hold her fold her
I never told her
my small confession:
I don’t practice
kissing”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“One UniVerse for the Living

While palaces attest to the power of men,
And monuments mark their wars,
Little remains of the women who've been-
Except for the sons that they bore.
But the voices of women were baked into bread
And later buttered with epics
While the souls of their daughters
Stitched with fine thread
Became tapestries stored in attics.
And all through the ages
Men boasted like beasts
Erecting pillars of marble and stone,
But still they found themselves only to be
Sculpted of flesh and bone.
Philosophers pondered the nature of gods
Outlawing temptations that plagued them
And earning themselves, against all odds,
The power to punish the pagans.
By writing themselves into sacred books
The clergymen sealed our fate
To follow decrees that have their roots
In nothing but misguided hate.
So, children of Adam and invisible Eve,
challenge the wisdom of sages.
Don’t be so sure sacred scrolls that you read
Aren't filled with human pages.
Walk in the wilderness.
Eat of the fruit.
Don't let them buy you with wages.
Plant your own garden.
Drink of the wine.
Learn how to be courageous.
Hearts that are hardened
To what is divine
Have honored the dead too long.
Search for the stories
Baked into bread
And eat until you are strong.”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“What If God Is a Creep?

What if God is a creep
who wishes He was taller
who didn't get the girl
who picks on people
not His own size?
What if God laughed
when Jesus had
second thoughts?
What if His sense of order
is no more complex
than kids playing
King of the Hill
or Smear the Queer?

What if God is really a creep
who beats His wife
embezzles when He can
and jerks off to violent porn?
Perhaps God put Darin on earth
to help us understand
that the very traits of man
which survive the longest
and determine the fittest
are God's own favorite attributes?
Maybe He's a boss who expects favors
a professor who makes others feel stupid
a witness obstructing justice.

What if God is really just a creep?
Maybe Machiavelli was
His inspired son
and The Prince
remains our most sacred text.
What if Hitler sits
at God's right hand
tended by a heavenly host
of bigots, bullies, soldiers
and other serial killers
who look to an angel
name Manson
for advice.

A God capable of
biological brilliance
and genetic genius
is no more likely to care
about justice and kindness
than His creations are.
Why assume that
God likes women
any more than men do?
Why imagine
He wouldn't hurt His children?

God's morality might be just
as steeped in struggle
as accented by abuse
as spiced with exploitation
and as baked with brutality
as our own common recipes.
Drink up.
One taste
and you are
in Heaven.

If God really is
a creep
that certainly would
explain
a lot.”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone

It must have been
the eighth day.

A day the scribes and Pharisees conveniently
left out.

Adam was either inspecting goats
or naming the birds

when something pinched
my side.

I had to stop pruning the tree of knowledge
to catch my breath.

God had taken a long weekend.

At first I thought the solitude of gardening
was going to my head.

Was it loneliness?
An omen? A vision?

For a moment I thought I would
ascend.

Then I realized it was just a rib
missing.

How you found your way in
along the banks of the third river

I will never know
but I still shiver to recall

how perfectly your fingers
fell into place

along the ridges
of my ribcage.

Go ahead, Love,
take every last bone.

Make of me
what you will.”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“Nude Descending a Soapbox

It was hard to take her seriously.
The issues were real
I know
But so was the show of thigh
the smooth swagger of hips
the ripple of tender tissue as it flexed
and unflexed before the listening eye.

She had a point to make
strong arguments too
but she had curves
that flashed into the afternoon light
and a bend in her back
that took three beats
out of the heart's every four.

She aroused with her conviction
entertained with her wit
and reasoned soundly
but as the nude stepped down from her soapbox
the utterance of her flesh
the parlance of her posture
the two pronouncements of her breasts

spoke with a diction that was far more convincing
than any jargon rhetorical.
In the end
it was the appeal
of the succulent spaces
that shaped her ankles
that lasted

and left one believing
that no lifetime would be wasted
in pursuit of her out-takes
on a quest for the mysteries of and beyond her flesh.
Sometimes the only available hold is language.
The body begs translation
of what words approximate

because the meaning of things said
and unsaid
like the line
of her neck
is exactly
what renders one satisfied
and speechless.”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“St. Francis knew the bear
to be born formless
licked into shape
by its mother.

So too
were pagans licked
into shape
by religion.

Bear with me
my love
what a conversion
it has been

To be
licked
into shape
by you.”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“Dressed to Live

Today is my newest garment.

Let me put it on
with ceremony.
Let me step into the day
as if to bathe in the passing hours.
Let me tuck in the loose ends
with precision.

Today is my newest garment.

Let me wear it as if it holds
my head high,
as if it can carry me
on its shoulders,
as if it will protect me
from the howl.

Today is my newest garment.

Let me fill my pockets.
Let them bulge with riches:
light on the wide sidewalk,
kind words from a stranger,
things perched, newly born,
carefully placed, aging gracefully.

Today is my newest garment.

At night
let me disrobe
grateful and whole,
knowing that
tomorrow
I will dress again.”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“Entertaining Possibilities

"Why sometimes I've believed as many as
six impossible things before breakfast."
- The Queen of Hearts,
Alice in Wonderland

riding bareback
on a triceratops
through green galaxies
while you ride beside me
on your favorite mastodon

running a finger
over those I love
and like a highlighter pen
turning them neon
noting them forever
so I can return to them
easily
when I need them

thinking something good
can come
of "ethnic cleansing"

swimming in an ocean
deep and wet enough
to fill the eternity
of love
between these two
sheets

walking into the vowels
of a word like open
and becoming it

locking away
Pandora's box
putting evil back
in its place for good
and swallowing the key

lighting myself
with a single match
then watching me melt
warm and liquid
over your body
cooling gently
in the shape of you

sitting flat
in round anticipation
I will be page 233 in the book
that you have just opened
and I will chew on each delicious moment
of every turn
as you move
page by page
closer
to me

stowing away
in your pillowcase
and sailing your dreams
so that when you are sent to walk the plank
I can catch you
together we can be
the mutiny
on any bounty

letting my best ideas ripen
beside yours
on the vine
then stomping it all juicy
between toes
yours and mine
aging
then bottling it all
till the sun falls
and we uncork
our store
one by one
and drink
forever in the twilight

planting a memory
watering the spot
watching it grow
tall, tender, familiar,
then putting my ear
to its blossom
and hearing
my grandmother's voice
tell me
again
that I can be both the gift
and the giver”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“The Price of a Muse

I write for
resurrection

to see bodies reassemble
and rise

I've tried to write my dog
off of the pavement

my first girlfriend back
into my arms

a love into more everlasting
than it was

my own soul
into being.

I know now the price
of a muse.

My writing
has not saved me.

It won't
save you.

But let me try
to raise us up.”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“The Bridges of Marin County

harbor views back east
never so panoramic
but here

driving the folds
of mt tamalpais
the whole picture smooth

blue of the bay
set like a table
for dinner guests who seat themselves

in berkeley oakland and san jose
pass around delicate dishes
of angel island ferry boats and alcatraz

i'll save a spot for you
in san francisco spread
with your favorite dishes

don't leave me
hanging in marin
dinner at eight and everyone else

on time
you said you'd bring the wine
we waited

as long as we could
the food
went cold

witnesses said
that you stood
nearly an hour

i imagine you crossing
back and forth
leaning tower to tower

finally
choosing
the southern

your wish to rest
nearer the city
than the driveway

how long had you been letting
your two selves push each other over
the edge

stuffing your pockets
with secrets and shame
weighing yourself down

with cement shoes
a gangster assuring your own
silence

i pay the toll daily
wondering
as the dark shroud

of the bay
smoothed over you
that night

who did you think
your quiet splash
was saving

were you keeping
yourself from the pleasures
you found in the city

boys in dark bars
handsome men who loved you
did they love you too

did you wrestle with vertigo
lose your sense of balance
imagine yourself icarus

dizzied by your own precarious perch
glorious ride
on flawed wings

was it so impossible to live
and love on both sides
of the bay

did you think i couldn't feel
your love
when it was there for me

your distraction
when desires
divided

history like the water
smoothes over
with half-truth

story of good job
and grieving widow
but each time i cross

this span
i wonder
about the men

with whom i share the loss
of you
invisibly

i sit unseen in
a castro cafe
wondering which men

gave you what kinds
of comfort
delight

satisfaction
these men of leather
metal tattoos

did you know them
how did you get their attention
how did they get yours

did you walk hand-in-hand
with a man who looked like you
the marlboro man double exposed

did you bury a love of bondage
dominance submission
in the bay

did you find friendship too
would you and i have found
the same men handsome

where are you
in this cafe crowd
i want to love

what you wouldn't show
me
dance with more than

a slice of truth
hold your halves together
in my arms

and rock the till i have mourned
and honored
the whole of you

was it so impossible to
cross that divide
to live

and love
on both sides
of the bay

hey
isn't that what bridges
are for”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“Continental Drift

you have moved through
like an ice flow-
steady slow substantial

tumble of glacial tongue
sweeping through
valleys reshaped

you arrived on your own epic time
patient and thorough
meltwater firn crevasse and all

lifting rocks on shifting plates
smoothing edges
and moving the very axes of my teeth

you soothed over rifts and fault lines
leaving me
newly minted

peaked and ridged
steep and crested
sloped and spurred

Hillsides lush
and summits glistening
I rush to a new dawn

but not without raw traces
of your tender era
scratched warmly on my every acre”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“Sapphic Chords

On what marble stones would you scratch your love today?
Spray it on brick walls, rap it in pool halls,
hang it on the clothes line with you lingerie?
Oh, Sappho!

Would you swing a softball bat, wear lipstick, ride a Harley?
What novels would you pen, what political party?
Is that really tenderness in your final line, or do words hang for what you
couldn't say?

What remnants you left behind, too little but enough
for us to know the luxury of your lust.
Your heat, your wisdom, your passion - all left in fragmented trust.
Oh, Sappho!”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems

“I Imagine Them

turning some dog-eared page
tapping out a drum beat on the dash
sorting the laundry
digging for a matching sock
buried in deep pockets
breaking an egg on the side of a bowl
fingering guitar strings

Where are they now?

tenderly holding a pen to paper
furiously moving through air
in concert
with your conversation
resting assuredly on the back
of a chair

oh to be the steering wheel
or the spoon
to have your palms
pressed solidly upon me
the full fan of your fingers
curved to the slope
of my shoulders
oh to be warmed
to be wrapped
in hope
to be healed
by the laying on
of your hands”
― Nancy Boutilier, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone: New Poems