“So that’s what he likes,” thought Mrs. God.
“you can hardly blame him.”

He had practiced on many creatures,
perfecting certain features,
like the iris of the eye, distinctly floral,
and tears for that matter, adjusting the salt.

Adam had come first, of course,
and there were “issues.”
“That tail has to go,” Mrs. God said.

So God began again with spare parts,
butterfly wings and peaches, a rib,
modesty. She would have a smooth gait,
he imagined, like a Tennessee Walker.

And actually her hoofs were Mrs. God’s
only criticism. “But the hands,” she said,

“You’ve done well there. Look at her
picking figs, just the ripe ones. So delicate…
wait till Adam sees her!” By this time, though,
God had almost forgotten about Adam.