In the Creation: ∞ Beginnings
On the first day, God called me Whore.
The second night he swore absolution,
named me Mary.
By third base, I was writing in Cyrillic script, so he defaced the walls,
smearing them with plum jam, afraid for the piercing of his wrists,
begging my name, Petulant Wild One.
On the score of the fourth, he bore deeply face-to-face,
cried for his foolish undoing, finger-sore for the trying,
of the failed unraveling, of his thick fisherman's knots,
salt crusting his lips, as he supped out Medusa.
The fifth brought a most wicked twist of flutes and hooves,
as he struck his staff upon the earth,
drinking deeply from the cup of elderberry wine,
as all manners of creatures offered themselves to his plate,
christened me Pan.
By the twilight of the sixth, he rode the river Styx,
conferred with Hades before returning to the cusp,
consulted cosmic maps, reading them back to front,
held against a right angled-mirror,
sighed as he swallowed his pride,
named me MoonChild.
And on the advent of the seventh, he merely shook his head,
took to his bed, offered up one final prayer,
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after: Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: April Four: Transformations
submitting to Poets United: Midweek Motif: Beginnings