PAIGE PASSANTINO

Genesis

On the third day, she wanted 
cigarettes. It was the first time 
since the time before.

On the sixth day, she prayed 
for pain: that beautiful 
companion: a head sobbed
into the windshield’s sun.
Resentment feels good
she said, at the table 
I get high on anger
and then, Amen.

The bush burned 
and burned some more. 

On the fourth day, she settled 
for ripping a sheet of aluminum 
foil in two, smashing the sheets
into balls and pressing the balls 
to her lips, where her throat turned 
to a growl of every word for 
god she knew: fuck and fuck 
and stop it, please. Anything.

I will do 
anything. 

On the second day, 
it was too soon to arrive.
In the palm’s bulb
she sensed petals, throbbing. 
Satin mouths pursing for 
a hit. Something else 
opened: a sloshing 
of wind between 
the rib bones. 

On the fifth day.

On the first day, she woke 
to a bright room after 
the blink. The angel 
snipped off a single 
shining feather from a silky wing, 
and in her angel hand, it turned 
to liquid pearl: an elixir 
she slipped in the woman’s 
bag, coiled to her and the snake
in her arm, the pulsing vein. 

The seventh day hung
itself in a hospital door. 
She pressed her hand 
to a windowpane
and pushed.