Noah

Among the many gods

that clamor for attention,

I’m most amused by the god

of my youth, the violent one

from The Old Testicle, who

tolerates human scourge

for only so long before

scouring the surface.

The Ark

was separated by stakes

to prevent breeding.

Ever seen a pig’s penis?

Corkscrewed and pink,

it’s a good reminder

that there is more

than one reason

to gouge your eyes.

*

Yesterday, over breakfast,

my daughter accused my husband

of being too strict; in response,

he recounted the story of Noah.

“Consider having a dad

like that guy,” he said,

“who opened the floodgates

of heaven when he’d had enough,

erasing everyone and everything

in one giant, genocidal wave.”

I kick him under the table

and he laughs, wolfishly.

“You know who was spared,” he says,

crouching close by our daughter.

“Noah, who was favored for his piety.”

I interrupt to share a fact

I’ve been holding on to for days.

“Emotional tears are different

than reflex tears,” I tell her.

“They are not chemically similar,

meaning allergy and onion tears

are not the same as sad ones.”

My daughter gives us the side eye, 

leaves the table to retrieve her bag,

and is out the door in a huff.

*

Under a fat August moon,

in the raft of my California king,

I recall an old Jewish myth:

Moments before you are born, 

an angel whispers your whole life

into the wrinkled apricot of your ear,

then slaps you across the face.

Instantly, your memory is erased,

and you’re born, naked and screaming.

At midnight - the devil’s hour -

I’m woken by my daughter, 

sobbing at the edge of my bed.

She’s had a teribble nightmare.

I pull her on board, press my belly

against her back, cover us in pine pitch.

“You are safe and you are loved,”

I whisper into her ear before we’re

submerged by a giant wave of sleep.

*

In the morning,

sunlight illuminates the lids of her eyes,

where lacrimal glands produce water

that spills forth when a god is forlorn.

The morning light wakes her.

She pops up, duly buoyant.