The Creation of Eve
— after a medallion by Donatello
Soft as clay, her legs buckle. Blind
and falling up through nothing,
she has no idea
how to move as she stumbles
out of the man’s dream. She’s a sloppy drunk,
willing to go home with the first stranger
to give her a shoulder to cry on.
Gropes with long
helpless fingers against God’s chest.
She is frightened — a moment ago
she was rib, a moment ago
she didn’t exist; and now she’s been
drawn out. This somewhere, this
air, is quick, no more heavy
bone to hold her. The man won’t move;
he dreams they’re joined still, but she can’t
drop back inside his skin, things have gone
too far. She shivers. How dazzling
and cold it is being born and required
to be good beyond belief.
– susan settlemyre williams