And Adam rises from the mud,
whole, moving his feet slowly
through the clay, as it sucks and

pulls him back, not yet ready to
give him up. His legs move
like shears cutting leather
and then he stands as still as stone,
exhaling what God has breathed
into him, the mud drying on his arms

as he watches himself and wonders
where he was before these arms
were his, these legs, this mud, and each

finger's evidence of particularity.
Had he been there always stirring
the mind of God, waiting for the mandate

to rise from His mesh of images,
to conform to flesh? Adam stands,
warming, thinking his way into the world.

He is the only one, symmetrical,
sufficient, the crux of matter,
the focal point. What does breathing

have to do with it, he wants to know
as he begins to think fox, lynx, otter,
mistle thrush, marmoset. Words

without contexts, names he mouths
as fast as they come to him: fairy
shrimp, lark, tamarin, sturgeon.

His respiration fills with utterance,
his mind with images of skunk,
pigeon, ibex, wallaby. Trapped

in the rhythm of naming, he seeks
the spaces between syllables,
desires respite from the phonics'

tumble. The words' roll unthroats
him, makes him listen for inflections
to meet his in more than an echo.

He leans back into the cumulus
of grass and dreams images of hair,
eyes, skin, thinks when he awakens

that his dreams have made her up.
Eve knows she has been there always,
kindling his mind, teasing the hairs

on his arm. She says skitter, punt,
hedge, fleece, speckle. That words
are acts had not occurred to him.

She says jostle, dice, pepper, twine.
When she says stick, pedal, march,
he is stirred to reciprocity, sensing

rationale, antecedent, cogitation. Eve
gazes at the fading sunlight and sees
God above and through. Adams sees

the dust on fire with twilight. His fingers
seek hers. She raises his palm and with
her finger spells her love inside it.

He moves close for her interpretation.

                              Published in The Christian Century vol. 113, no. 26 (Sept. 11-18, 1996)