Creation Story
Another name for nostalgia,
some kind of traffic
from yesterday, the way an argument
finds a nerve you didn’t think could exist,
the hymn for a religion of ash
and cloud. I fell in love with a river that dried
up at the foot of a tree. I didn’t know
the ax I held was made from the wood
of its offspring, didn’t know I could earn
grief so easily without forgiveness. I
always wake like clockwork to check
on the world before dawn. Last night
the kitchen filled with yeast, and I curled
in on the promise on a sheep. I didn’t
need to count anything. I didn’t need
to pray to the god of gravel to know
he believed in the mythology of me.
