David Feela

The Evolution of God

Before light, before the firmament emerged
from behind a milky ignorance, there was god,
pure and omnipotent, rather unfocused
but powerful enough to smite academic theory.
Luckily, thought hadn't emerged either
so nobody was smitten, and the world evolved
with the exception of minotaurs
who vanished out of sheer indecisiveness.
Nothing was wrong with Homo sapiens
except for a lack of confidence
and an overwhelming belief in food.
In fact, they were food for predators so often
the half-erect, mostly baffled but stubborn sinews
of the human race trembled
because god had claws and teeth.
Powerless, they endured morning and evening
through the first millennium until fire
and weapons subdued the animals.
Humans glanced about and saw it raining, raining
more than they could imagine,
making caves and rock ledges miserable places
to sleep, so they reasoned
god must live above the weather.
They looked to the sun, moon, even stars as gods,
all the while shivering beside their kettles,
wondering what went wrong,
offering smoke like a loose-fitting skin, something
to warm god's attitude.
A few hundred-thousand years, timbers were cut,
heat fluffed up like blankets of air.
Copernicus had a strange dream about god.
Scientists observed a string of sterile conclusions
but one thought shook the earth: God
was revised, confined to paper
just like a government.
New territories opened, quarks are still
wrestling with angels
for space on the head of a pin.