I wasn't sure
what to do with myself
after I was invented.
There was a vague sense of gratitude
to the Maker, but not enough to
overcome the inertia of his absence,
bored with his work, long gone.
I was still struggling
to understand why
you took one eye from an angel,
one from a devil, and made
my legs out of fish
so that when I stepped in the wave,
they darted away free
while my torso of sand
my abalone-shell breasts
untied, fell to rest on the sea floor,
the angel and the devil staring up
through blue eternity.
It all seemed a bit
what you had in mind.
Top: Bathing Woman, by Joan Miro, 1925
Footer: Shell No. 2, by Georgia O'Keefe,
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