Postdiluvian

The ark lowered

like a body into a grave.

But before it came

to rest, I could

hear things knocking

bluntly against

the hull. Debris—

a new word

for people, homes,

animals. Noah kept

the dove as a pet,

feeding it a pinch

of nibbles

whenever it cooed

in his ear. He asked me

over and over why I

didn’t coo in his ear, too—

he’d saved me

after all. I never responded,

dragging some poor soul

by the ankles

into the compost pile.

The renewed world

smelled like death

with a fishy undertone.

So many had swum

so far, only to be left

in the mud. I dried

them in the sun,

ground their bones

into a fine powder

to sprinkle over

the garden. I was

raped every night

after our meager

meals. The wolves

would howl

in their cages

whenever they heard

the slap of flesh,

Noah’s grunts

like glottaled

alephs, and after

he was finished,

he’d call the dove

down from its perch,

hold a seed between

his lips and let the bird

take it. He called this

a kiss. He called this

love. We let

the herbivores go

first, let them

propagate

before we released

the predators.

That night, I watched them

run in pairs

into the distance,

planting their

prints into the soggy

earth, knowing

their savagery

innocent.