Who was he, really, the one who walked
In the garden in the evening time? I doubted
He was either that particular Jewish man
Or that particular Christian god, or any
Historical particular. He, it, was a rumor,
Old as gardens, or at least as old as gardens
Worth strolling in, which would be to say,
Not particularly old in the scheme of eons,
But a good many human generations
In the making. This rumor whispered
That if you walked alone in the garden
At a certain time of evening or, in some
Traditions, of morning when the dew
Was still on the roses, you could encounter
The stranger you always wanted and feared
And yet live to testify and send the rumor on.
I suspected it was that figure, ungendered,
Faceless, shadowy, but comforting, gently
Talkative enough to draw out your own
Griefs and confessions. The rumor was true
But impossible to confirm because of one
Error in transmission: you didn’t live.
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