Good Myths Take Turns

Our old thought was to start with night,
Night with no stars, no sort of light,

No edge to that night, vast and void,
And then to seed it or wet it

Or speak it to light, bring it day,
And then we’re off, call that the start.

But what if it were too much day,
First, a scorched, cruel start with no dark?

A hot blob of rock lopped from fire,
No spin at all, one face in flames,

One face its own flames, pocked with more
That crashed and burned and crashed and burned

All the time, but there was no time,
No days, no nights, no pulse to fire,

Just fire. And then, and then . . . try this:
A huge hunk of dead rock crashed in,

So big the world split, and the moon
Turned cold and set out to drift, spin

Set in on Earth, and then the night
Showed up, a glimpse and then a glimpse,

To make the days, to give fires pause—
Soft harsh, soft harsh. Let there be life.