His hands sculpt perfection from clay
and granite and wood. From his fingers
soft features blossom, becoming figures
of beauty and peace in their own way.
He moves them, makes them face away
from unfinished imperfection, sinners
from birth, from creation, defilers
of His workshop. They had no say.
She was crafted from bone,
a feeble mind to be dominated
by the fallen. She is left to grieve
with a body half-sculpted, scars sewn
into layers of marrow. Forgotten,
she is His sorry attempt at Eve.