Evolution

we are seven sundays
slept in and shielded
from the blood of morning. I
look at you and do not feel
alive.

if this isn't evolution,
then the world must
be as flat as your voice,
sliding across the floor
to land at my feet.

ape to man,
man to genius.
genius diving back
underneath the covers, scorned
by productive algae. I hold these
words
the same way
you ask me to hold my tongue.

always wanted a man
to stalk my notebooks to the
ground, pounce on my leg
to read what I scrawled
on the underside of my ankle.

some people have giraffes in our spines.
they stand and stretch,
ready to hijack the thorny trees.
while we are rolling
out of bed, they have already
opened the eyes, the knee joints,
and then the mouth, to survival

on the eighth
day of the Lord,
I leave you to the lions.