I'm Major Jackson and this is the Slowdown.

It seems like there's not one person who hasn't sung along with the Edda James classic

Sunday kind of love.

For most, Sunday is our sacred day to lay loose-limbed in bed to take our time to do nothing.

It's the day to roll over and let an arm and leg fall over the body of a friend or partner

or dog as a rectangle of sunlight slowly travels the room.

Then, alas, we have arisen and stretched and yawned our way out of cuddling towards

a glass of orange juice or coffee.

And it's the day to move around in pajamas as long as possible, unhurried, reading a

newspaper or as the song suggests, relishing in the languorous joys of a permanent love.

Today's poem, which alludes to the biblical story of Adam and Eve and the first garden,

celebrates the carnal sweetness of those chill days with the beloved.

The poem brazenly proclaims the power and maybe even recklessness of sensuous mating

that is its own form of world-building, voyage and cultivation.

From the Garden of Limbs, by Christina Perez Diaz, one, limbs of each other, limbs to

be remembered by no one, we alone, we grew a garden, every dead Sunday we grew a garden

of limbs, every dead Sunday a garden of daggers in our thighs, not to be remembered, that

every Sunday we neglected this labor of founding a country and stayed in bed, each growing

limbs inside the other.

And not only on Sundays, all week long, for years, we neglected the task repeatedly,

even now to be honest.

We are really just lying in bed, too.

...