genesis pangs

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
the beginning is the end is the beginning

Submitted: May 21, 2013

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Submitted: May 21, 2013




a Jigsaw-man collapses into one thousand pieces of earth or roses and

bits of sky unplaced. He is a constant surgery (of life almost) of skin only;

His membranes tear neatly as perforations, He blinks

interlocking, He was a good rebus for a time.

still, He yearned for hair rung like bronze and glinting mica flesh,

for an ivory spine to cut down the fault of Him and

make His legs ambling and distinct.

but instead

He birthed Himself as His own green firma with incidental cosmos

circling above, a scarlet moon and puritanic sun;

with vultures setting on doves there was the consumption of time

and it wasted over His stillborn parts

that would not be fitted with the rest,

and made them deadened asteroids.

He was sick with ocean and the universe swarmed darkly

with its microbes and other squirming life.

He saw the first birth of pupiled eyes

who turned to Him and His volcanic warmth to bed down in

and gave them the best spines He never had.

for them He made acacia and ash,

the roses came up as He pictured they would,

dirt populated in the viscous heat and

morose humidity affixed legs and brains to bodies

as they lay like stones in the wet.

they built themselves a good spiteful language

and forged their own chrome teeth.

they chewed cities out of His sides that hardened to a sweet crust

and then forgot Him, dazzled by the sun.

He looked at His feet and felt entropy slide through His blood,

a cold sweat leaked stealthily past His ears,

anxiousness sat in His stomach among the fluttering of moths

and the many particles of Himself shuddered and loosened,

particles which were Africa, icebergs, grasses and fleas,

and soon nothing touched at all.

soon everything was greedy for gravity,

pushed and pulled poor, limp, empty space like old elastic

and shot themselves as far out as they could go.

Jigsaw could only watch,

and feel the relief of being alone.


© Copyright 2019 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.

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