In the beginning I snapped a wishbone
into uneven pieces. I cleaved
the new earth into two bowls
and circled them with the menstrual blood
of my daughter, the milk from her breast.
She fled, looked to be filled again.
I fed the first beasts with rivers of milk
and licked man from blocks of ice,
tongue parting the frost to reveal hair, head, body.
I taught man how to make houses, bodies
and how to make houses from bodies.
And we still practice today—forearm shelves,
railroad tracks from spines.
Man went in search of a being less full than himself
and found my daughter.
And man filled the house and my daughter.
All the bodies said “It is good” and slept.
I tore pellets
from the mouths of hills and watched
the abundance of houses take form below.
Aidan Forster is the blog editor of The Adroit Journal and the co-founder/managing editor of The Adroit Journal. He has work in The Adroit Journal, Assaracus, DIALOGIST, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Two Peach, and Verse, among others.