The first atoms float in space. They find purpose, and come together to be made visible. Light shines on something for the first time: stars where unliving smiths temper iodine and uranium, iron and gold. They weave in and out, and come together, and break apart, and become us.
Carl Sagan said we are made of star stuff. a supple apple on Eden’s Tree of Knowledge.
We are made of star stuff.
And herds of deer, and flocks of geese, and forests of pine, all mimicking the ancient atoms as they gather, like stars in the void that wrought them.
So is factory meat, and rats in fecal pipes, and mercury discharge lighting veins of swordfish, and welter-dunes of rainbow-plastic sand, all running into the sea. Rabies and cancer cells and worms that crawl in sheep, and dogs, and people. The hundred-year-old turtle and the soda ring around his neck are molecular brothers.
We, and the herds,
and the flocks, and
the forests, and
everything other than
God.
The deep, and the Earth, and the firmament, and the waters above, and higher, high Heaven where He watches the Creation with benediction, and the angels spin their flaming swords and shout for joy at their little kindred below.
Adam tosses cans of lite beer through the garden as he walks in dogshit covered Timberlands. Eve scrolls her phone in the tub and emerges smelling of shea butter, and argan oil, and the essence of wine farts.
She sees Adam, sprawled on his gaming chair watching Joe Rogan, and smashes his head in with a heavy object.
When she sees the cleft in his skull and the betrayal on his face, she vomits Sagan’s apple and remembers love in the cowlicks on his scalp.
And Michael and Lucifer sing together again.
