God showcased a seven-day skill, 
naming anythings. His word cattle fell 
like body-warm milk, wetting the unformed 

into herding pools of coarse brown hairs. 
“Moo” warmed the air. God bubbled swallowspoonbill,
cackling goose, and threw the birds to the wind in handfuls. 

Cattle shit fed the earth—raked, dusty thing— 
and God dripped daffodildaisydandelion from chapping lips, 
feeling purposed, feeling good. He finally named man 

to enjoy (disfruta) the land, then tilted his great head 
and liked his little swirls of dirt and words. He was done. 
Sleep didn’t settle him in the night: man was alone. 

Dust-tongued, God pulled man’s rib, 
grew this other thing, and was done. 
Man swelled to release the name woman

leaving God to the sky, 
leaving the unbroken snake trail, pointing.

KRISTEN HERRERA received her MFA from the University of Florida. She currently resides in Michigan, working as a grant writer for a solar energy company. Kristen has been published in the Atticus Review, Albion Review, and has an upcoming poetry translation in Subtropics
The Adirondack Review