The Daughter of Man
by Jesse Glass
-- Genesis 6:2.
The mask of lead floated before her sight; the heavy phallus
slid from its nickel sheath & lifted her toward the sky
where the sexless divisions of the Elohim
fumed & thundered in a pillar of fire.
What knowledge did the Daughter of Man hold like a stake in her flesh
while she unfurled the world’s governments from her fingertips, & tried in vain
the glitter of those eyes trapped behind their shield? Did she
feel the blueprint of the ages fuse with her secret egg, hear
the hoarse whisper of a lascivious Angel when the egg split like an atom?
And when the pink tube fanned forth like a wrist in her womb
did she stand alone in the grove
feeling the nodules grow into dangerous fingers? Giants
fell from her in time. Their opposable thumbs
split rocks into menhirs; pinched eyes into sightless clay.
They cut their magical countersigns in stone; shot arrows
through the clouds & watched them fall, blood-tipped, back to earth.
They licked the glitter & roared success
while their bestial mother squatted in darkness,
the refulgent armies passing through her
onto the plains. The wilderness
held the impress of their movements
like a clouded mirror turned to a sky
where no fleshy ghosts now rode
the golden disc of the sun or
the silver disc of the moon, & the giants stood
in rain inventing
despair for every living thing
wrapped in a loop of wire hooked
to two secret poles; one number
glinting above its head, another
chiseled darkly beneath its feet. Today a new Pillar of Fire
leads us into a wilderness
of cement polygons, where we stand
watching the curious lights
wobble before they fade,
and we recall the whispered promises
among the midden heaps where oddly familiar strangers
leave us kneeling
sobbing, pointing toward heaven. .
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