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          1. the making of eve

adam, ex nihilo,
drugged in a tub
ice-filled in a hotel & you,
shadow next to the Gideon’s
using a very small trowel
putting her arms on.
you’ve spent hours
before the mirror/ posing
with your finger pointed,
deciding what belongs;
such intelligent design.

          2. the marking of eve

in the surveillance monitors
they’re searching for large
leaves. six-day sleepless,
exhausted, the cathode ray
tube flickers in your room,
while you're chainsmoking
camels to calm your nerves.
storm out in your bathrobe
to give them bellybuttons &
punctuation marks, a pox
on their mitochondria,
you became I & the silence.

          3. the marketing of eve

morning closes the flaps of your universe & you
tuck it under your arm. there's a curtain of frost
on the windowsill, damn AC kept you up all night,
the one night of rest. struggling to get your universe
& luggage through the hotel door together [shut
before your self can wedge in properly] you descend
the stairwell to your Lincoln & head to the convention
center for the exhibition--your booth next to the other
creators & their solutions for filling the loneliness.