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A Genesis

                                    Mary Biddinger


I caught you gleaming. But you
invented me with your mouth.
We were cut from the same cloth
of awesomeness.
Our glory
could stop wars. The azaleas shut
their blooms when you opened
me. A new kind of reverence
broke tabletops instead of mending.
The city sent us a letter asking
to harness our heat for infrastructure
development. How many cranes
could we power back into the sky?
There was a dead house nearby,
and only we could rock it back into
its foundation. We signed no
contract because we didn’t need to.
The shutters were all hanging.
I stepped on a crisp winged ant
and you dispatched it. Water
flowed like chitchat in the cellar.
We started in the living room.
Never touched the bloated red sofa.
I had my eye to a triangular
window. Paint on its sill stopped
peeling when it saw my thigh.
You began when you saw my thigh.
My thigh could educate entire
districts. My left breast knew more
than the average philosopher.
Officials stopped by to inspect us.
Someone brought a gigantic
key, but you dwarfed it, made them
hurry back to the squad car
as if it had never happened. Next
we ransacked the attic, pink
frizz of insulation lapping at us.
We were immune to its fibers,
watched the eaves hustle westward.
At the end of the day, the day
still hadn’t ended. The mayor threw
a fireworks reception, begged us
to send a golden spider into the sky.


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