The rebel angel, Melek Taus, who made the world.
The god’s propitiation with incense at a cave mouth.
We may debate the name of the rebel angel,
who may not care for the creation
which he released into the void
like a falcon from his hand-perch
to soar above post-diluvian waters.
On a single continent mingle placental
with marsupial mammals, the possum
that much later cowers by the interstate
is concealed gracefully by giant ferns.
Melek Taus, the rebel angel, has doubts
about creation, but in his lassitude, lets it stand.
The flick of wrist inherent in artistic hands
can surprise him. Division is inscribed
in migrations of eider-ducks and geese,
forked like the first words flying from the tongue.
They’ll have to propitiate him in groves
and better yet in caves. From its unlit throat
groans an oracle: the worshipers have learned
the pitfalls of literal translation.
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