Making
love to god
was only making.
Before there was
night or day
he came to me
and did not make eye contact
while he sculpted
my clay body to form
the mountains, continents, and seas.
I tried not to breath
as he brushed
ant hills off my stomach
and trimmed me,
leaving trees only
where they looked best.
He still had not spoken
when, finally
content with my form,
he made
and he left
me silently,
to give birth.
The jackal was first.
Though I knew he was not
pleased, god returned,
always pruning,
never speaking.
I bore turtles and fish,
snakes and lions, and
man.
I’ve stopped waiting for his return, but
his marks are still on my mountains and seas.