On the evening of the seventh day,
god reaches his calloused hands into the garden of Eden,
and, almost as an afterthought,
fashions himself a man out of the red sand.

Six thousand years later, he reaches inside my mother,
and repeats the same motions in her womb.

Dusty, dry. My body washes up on the shore.
In catholic school they tell me what to do with it.
“It’s a temple,” they say. “Your body’s a temple,”
so that evening I try and touch myself, and oh—
oh. Right. This again. There it is—expecting warmth,
I find nothing but bone-cold walls, and suddenly
I am hurting in two places at once.

It was god who molded my eyeballs out of pearls,
but me who carved the bags underneath.

It was god who fastened my muscles to my bones,
but me who tore the threads apart.

It was god who poured acid into my stomach,
but me who tried to purge it out, but I’m trying
to be better, I am, I promised, I promised
my mother I’d take care of myself, no I haven’t eaten yet, but
I promise, I will, I’ll make this body a place I can finally live in.

Today I will eat. I will light a candle in this temple
that I forgot was a temple.

Today I will sleep. Listening quietly I will be able
to hear my organs sing.

Today I will drink. I will kneel before my stained glass skin,
leave my offering at the altar of my optic nerve.

And at the end of it all, when I open my eyes to meet god’s gaze,
I will see no one but myself, standing tall and proud in the garden of Eden.

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