Ex Nihilo by Dana Blatte
In the beginning, we created
something out of nothing.
God said, Let there
be light—and then there was light,
or something oddly similar.
See, we conjured good tricks,
fickle little things. We said here
there are animals and here
there are plants and here:
there are bodies—but you were never
meant to see that. You were meant
to stay in the light, to never question
its source. Heed the narrative: Let there
be Heaven. God himself goes
before you. Bow, pray, or do something
oddly similar. The room is dark;
no one can see you sinning
quietly. It was good, God said,
though we didn’t know
if he was talking about genesis
or gambling, our little tricks lying on the line.
And it was so: the two great lights came
out, and there was no question of their source.
God blessed them both and all the waters
writhed with monsters, and the fowl ruled
the sky, and God created himself,
or something oddly similar. Let us
make mankind and hope they bless
themselves. God is resting, acting
holy, while we confess our questions.
In the beginning, we created something—
or was there never nothing? Just a story,
a source, a body as a frame—
or something oddly similar.
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