Genesis

Elizabeth Cooley

I’ve imagined the way God
must’ve mixed the new earth,
dirt and grass in a round
sandbox behind the garage with sticks.
He must’ve wrapped it around his hands,
scratched out an alphabet with chalk.
I’ve imagined his drawings—sheet after sheet
of construction paper—scrawled:
the creation of a tree, a river, this one, all
blue, the sky. Under a fort of blankets
with a flashlight, tongue stuck
between teeth, inexperienced, he must
have made man, his hands
slipping here, an extra groove,
here, a sharp line, here
here.