from "Fancy Hat People or People are Cities (The Haunting of Genesis)": Chapter 2 or How a Heart
Naomi Beth Tarle

     

And stuff is done, and God is the host-ess with the most-ess.

On the seventh day God makes faulty alarm clocks, drinks
roasted grain beverages and tapes his toes together.

God says: 'hhhhh-hhh.'

Intercoms squeeze into the chest.

God watches the Science Channel and considers the elasticity of shrubbery—
trips and kinks the garden hose.

So God thinks real hard on it
and up a mist from the earth comes
and waters their faces—
through the pillaged flesh bucket—a living soul.

Then God plants a garden and places a stone gnome in it and a rusty wheelbarrow with conversational-prone wild flowers.

They all suffer from permanent déjà-vu.
They collect shells that resemble handheld fans
and don't allow cheese slices to touch.
They have drawers in their trees and trees in their drawers
and cats on seesaw planks.

God builds a local movie theater
and they like it.

They make lists of names but lose them
and everyday they start fresh
and everyday they shrug
and sneeze out watch batteries.

They ride Huffy's down the hill to the sea.
(Some ride the breaks and their hearts are towels wrapped in a humming bird.)

Some stay up late until they are sour and only their left hands are warm.

And they make friends with a hamster and a turtle.
They teach them the alphabet and in return receive love songs that begin:
"Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes."

A man brushes by.
They sigh with premature reflux
and tell him that sometimes a tree is a tree
is a tree.

And the man says: 'Dem bones, dem bones, dem flesh, dem flesh.'

 

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