Hit play below to hear Kate Partridge read her poem “Eve from Above” and scroll down for the full text. “Eve From Above” is featured in MQR’s Summer 2020 issue.
Eve From Above
Enter dipping close to the mountains, the sheep bouldering their positions along the ridge. As long as you can feel the air pressing against the mere glass and engine rattle, the mountains must be on one side, the valley on the other. Or else the image dies. Or else the brush and purple flowers draw higher What does it mean to be patient? Even the needles clinging on in the breeze will let go. Or the plant which, once tread, takes one hundred years to reproduce its head. A woman walks the tree line, tracing it with her body, and down to the rocky bed of fish in spread formation, and back again to the flowers purpled by closeness to the sun. The hillside does not end, always pushing the outside world up and down on its shoulders. Connecting, again, earth and sky. I guess this is the time when everyone arrives. The flowers grow as if they cannot see themselves. The fish after an origin that is not seeking them. You, watching, are like the paws reaching at them from above, muffled by the evening river’s roll; you, watching, are like the rocks shaken loose from their beds, a swifter rain. A face above, just outlining its own moon. Braided river pulled strand by strand from its riverbank husk. When the woman bends into a drink of water from the stream, the mosquitos fill her mouth. She cannot let them out. She will.