She’s stronger now,
not hiding or exiled
at the polished table
in the quiet courtroom.
She wears a dark green suit.
She knows about archetypes,
hell, she created them.
Think fig leaves.
Think the Starbucks siren.
Think just bucks.
She’s here to win.
That bitten apple
has been hers for millennia.
She’s a little bitter—
her name only written four times
in that oh, so holy book, and yet
look at her acreage
in the land of blame.
She was here with her apple
long before you, Mr. Jobs,
before the dinosaurs
and the forming of your new world,
before the unlatched gate and exile
with apple seeds hidden in her palm.
She owns the apple.
That’s her bite.
Shall we talk about prior use?
Have you seen the Rubens painting?
Let’s not confuse
your insatiable desire
with hers.
Feel free to take
the snake.
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Sarah Dickenson Snyder (she/her/hers) carves in stone & rides her bike. Travel opens her eyes. She has four poetry collections, The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), With a Polaroid Camera (2019), and Now These Three Remain (2023). Poems have been nominated for Best of Net and Pushcart Prizes. Recent work is in Rattle, Lily Poetry Review, and RHINO. Sarah Dickenson Snyder