Adam Father

Méira Cook

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He wakes up naked and drunk as a bear

on sun-fermented garbage.

Hungover and queasy and riled up by

bees.

Nothing going well today, he moans,

life being short and the craft, ah, long.

Still, might as well take a stab at it,

lording it over misrule and tending the

shame

that transforms a garden into Genesis.

 

So there he goes, stalking through the

world

on his back legs, pelting down half-

eaten words

from a great height.

Whatever he touches shrieks and bel-

lows or writhes

like the alphabet.

A is for Crocodile, he croaks,

dashing through the Everglades. See you

later!

And B is for the Wasp that stings him

and C —

C is for the wide blue Ocean

in which he nearly drowns.

 

But nothing can drown him, our Adam

whose resolution is steadfast

and breezy at last, and buoyant

as a stone boat.

Méira Cook, "Adam Father," from A Walker in the City. Copyright © 2011 by Méira Cook. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Source: A Walker in the City (Brick Books, 2011)