God showcased a seven-day skill,
naming anythings. His word cattle fell
like body-warm milk, wetting the unformed
into herding pools of coarse brown hairs.
“Moo” warmed the air. God bubbled swallow, spoonbill,
cackling goose, and threw the birds to the wind in handfuls.
Cattle shit fed the earth—raked, dusty thing—
and God dripped daffodil, daisy, dandelion from chapping lips,
feeling purposed, feeling good. He finally named man
to enjoy (disfruta) the land, then tilted his great head
and liked his little swirls of dirt and words. He was done.
Sleep didn’t settle him in the night: man was alone.
Dust-tongued, God pulled man’s rib,
grew this other thing, and was done.
Man swelled to release the name woman,
leaving God to the sky,
leaving the unbroken snake trail, pointing.
KRISTEN HERRERA received her MFA from the University of Florida. She currently resides in Michigan, working as a grant writer for a solar energy company. Kristen has been published in the Atticus Review, Albion Review, and has an upcoming poetry translation in Subtropics.