Adam's Apple

You chugged a bottle of water,
and my attention shifted from your sweaty,
water-pearled hair, your slick chest
to the bobbing lump in your throat
and I imagine a fishing line
teasing my eyes in the water's reflection
and the sun's playful peek-a-boo
over the pond's circumference.
I see the red and white bait slowly meander
over the surfance, and sometimes it dips
and dunks but I can never
catch a fish.
Why is it called an Adam's apple? I ask
and poke the bony, tumor-like interruption
in your throat.
Dunno, you said.
I try to push it back in.
Ow! That's tender, don't poke it, you said
and gave me the remnants of water, probably
dominated with saliva.
I thought of the tender bite on my shoulder,
how you bit into it as if it were a peach or something.
Your teeth slid in easily,
not as hard as your apple,
and I wonder if Eve took your hard
aggressive bite, or if she just nibbled
like I do on the half-crescent of your
ear, a taste-test, a sample;
I'm sure she'd never tasted something like that before.
And Adam sees this rebellion
of God's broken rules
And he sees Eve nibble and gets jealous.
I think Adam ripped Eve a new one
or maybe chewed through her cognitive wires and said,
You idiot, why did you do that?!
but Eve was confused and she had no idea.
But Adam, what are you talking about? she asked.
God said don't touch! Don't bite! he said.
But he didn't tell me--you didn't tell me, she said.
But you should've known, you stupid woman.
So Adam thought, what the hell,
we're dying anyway,
so he ripped the fruit from her hand
and chomped a chunk out of the apple
and obnoxiously chewed with apple mush stringing
among the threads of saliva.
Eve starts getting angry
Why didn't you tell me?
You should've known. There are some things you shouldn't have to be told, he said.
She took the apple from his hand and,
mid-bite,
she shoved her hand down his throat
until the apple gets stuck
and Adam is suffocating,
choking as the apple bits fly like
little gnats out of his gasping, gaping mouth.