Be fruitful and increase in number;
fill the earth and subdue it.
—Genesis 1:28

Her flaming hair
is God's own power,
even as heat swells
the damp atmosphere;
he hums a jingle
as he spins
pedicel to fiber, four leaf
clovers, grinning.
'Seven days,' he says aloud—
this has took long enough
already. A motel room
with centrefolds on walls
(from dirty magazines),
and behind her, Adam
waiting with himself
at attention, like an arm
with veins, the brine of Eve
in him, even as she
tosses her hair
to turn him
into a creature
whose need is to mate
with her. In her head
a moon light shines
on flowing strands
which are translucent
like flowers of love,
in a world she shares
with a fruit, this man,
a serpent,
and no adamant
people to curse
the pleasure that shall
deform her face.