The Bestiary of Christ
David Shackelford
January 1, 2002
Christ was all around them in the garden:
He yawned and licked his flank,
lolling tawny in the sun outside the bower,
He explored Eve's hair with twig-like feet
and hid a white pebble in the whorl of her ear
while she, a bit bored, tried to remember His name.
The name remained hidden from Adam
while he combed the phonemes
and shuffled syllables for something
suitable for the creature which barked
from the river's edge, His webbed claws
making strange marks on the muddy bank.
Behind, with long sharp beak
and reedy legs standing on the water
She cocked an eye towards the sinuous one,
saw Him wind up and into the overladen tree-
blood cooling as he climbed, a dark sentience
awakening in his seedlike eyes.
Later, as the dusk-dew formed
and night sounds began to echo in the canopy
God need not have asked. His Son
hung from a tree behind them, with a prehensile tail,
upside-down and wide-eyed; watching.
David Shackelford is a network engineer living in Whittier, California. He has reviewed poetry for the South Coast Poetry Journal and, once upon a time, was editor of Wheaton College's Kodon magazine.
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