On the sixth day, God, exhausted, threw a little good in us.
A peapod nestled in our heads, whispering,
warm-bodied, eating up our cruelty.
He must have. He must,

because the fires I’ll set are still stored up
in their spring-loaded canister.

And as a child with a chubby fingered fist—
And as a jackal-girl, salivating—
And as a karambit with its menacing geometry—
I still never,

I’m gonna put rats in her
pluck her eyes out like a bird!

never did it. Something unhinged its jaw and swallowed it all.

And when it can’t digest the impulse, the little iron peg
inside the skull, the guilt mechanism,
will break you open.
Skin you like a chestnut
until you’re that shriveled good thing.

Thank you for making me a human being.

But what of the Really Good Ones?

There was a man in the drainage trench beneath the 12:45 train.
His two daughters on the platform saw the grease on his cap
as he crawled out with the boy who fell in first,
who was seizing on the tracks,
who was saved by
what?

They gave him $20,000 and two Jeep Patriots for it.
They had to. We can’t conceive that slippery thing.
The thoughtlessness of it.

Would you have—?
No.