teardrops race his elbows, veining his arms
lightning. It’s a foggy sight for the angels –
they’ve never seen him like this, twitching
crooked under cloud light. he remembers the sixth
day of creation, having spent the eve dusting Adam’s
rib alive, every blood knock gorgeous at the wrist.
how quickly the serpent found blush point,
the loud distance of an afterimage. so when God
saw his designs in the limp of their nakedness,
irises backed against the garden of shame,
he abandoned all tender, all father’s favorite, Lord
of bloated mercy. and when he recovered
consciousness, the hot wet anger dying
beneath lungs, he looked at his hands, looked
at his children’s looking of him. carnage for miles,
generations, the wail of a mother swaddling
a purpled corpse, screaming against heaven
for answers. how all this blood amounts to nothing.
and when God realized his voluntary doing, the ache
of earth’s missing light, he retreated to the corner crying
pathetic, whispered whispered whispered into his wrists
monster you’re a monster you’re a monster a monster
you’re a monster you’re
Nicole Adabunu is an MFA in Poetry graduate from The Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She is a 2024 Cave Canem Fellow, and her work has been published by Writer’s Digest, The Academy of American Poets, The Drift, and elsewhere. She currently lives and writes in Chicago.