I have thought about your formation
And mine a glorious rib, extracted.
I have examined your godly ribs,
Found nothing Christian.
I swear on the saints, I searched.
You are part deity, but a Grecian one:
An ancient and anonymous bust of marble,
I looked for you in myths and I found silence.
You must be part creature:
I thought I'd uncovered you part-by-part
From fetid swamplands, pale and sinewy,
Grasped by roots of blackened trees
Whose branches writhed, serpentine, above.
I thought you struggled there, caged
Or maybe that was me,
And you did the finding.
Does that make you a savior?
Perhaps you are some breed of conqueror.;
You have indeed taken certain temples.
Each holy edifice you desired
Not for the crumbling of cathedral walls,
But for repose upon the pews within.
Holy water stains the floor;
Windows lie in vibrant shards;
Your spoils sparkle and smell of incense.
Above all, you are part human.
This was the most shocking discovery:
You are of my swampy wasteland!
It manifested itself in your rhythmic chest,
In the way that your stony ribs rose
And fell, undulating and pale.
And a hand
A sinning hand, a fallible, beauteous, mortal human hand,
Searched for mine, but
My dear Adam:
You had the apple all along.