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.

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