After centuries of negotiation
in the manner of writer and editor
God himself chose the stone and font.

“How many copies?” asked Mrs. God, patiently.
“I was thinking a thousand?” God answered,
sharpening his chisels. “At least for
the first edition. Some folks may need to share.”

Mrs. God left him to it. The sound
of iron against rock grew faint.
She was shaping something milder,
a long, serious period of rain
across the outback, where such a gift
meant tears of gratitude.

Meanwhile God began to tire.
The commandments, formed letter by letter,
seemed wordy, even after he’d eliminated
most of the footnotes. His palms had blistered
without the gloves he always misplaced.
“Thou shalt not lie,” he mused. “Or is it
lay?” She would know, if only she were here.