Genesis

Erin Barrilleaux


I pulled the darkness apart,
held the halves
in separate hands,
tossed them, like a juggler,
above my head.

 

I reached into my breast,
extracted a sphere
of yellow fire,
carved the moon
from the canals of my ear.

 

I birthed the sea
from my open mouth,
water climbed the walls
of my throat, waves contoured
to the shape of my tongue.

 

My palms smoothed the earth
dug from underneath
my fingernails, the miles
stretched with a flick
of my wrist.

 

I muscled the mountains,
while trees sprouted
out of the roots
of my hair, canyons sculpted
from the space between my hips.

 

I peeled back the flesh
hiding between my inner thighs
to mold forms in the shape
of my shadow, as my sweat
burned holes in the sky.

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