The heat came from hell and cooked our sins in a clay pot the size of Texas. Let it simmer for forty days and forty nights, then added six green tomatoes and upped the heat about ten more degrees. But only to represent the number of inches Delilah cut off. Or was it twelve? Then seasoned it with a dash of lemon pepper and too much salt.
It tasted like lamb, they said.
Like lamb? we asked.
Like lamb, they said.
When Noah built that boat, he forgot to bring the roach. But it survived anyway, so God forgave him and created the dove out of thin air.
Like that? we asked.
And they snapped their fingers.
The Red Sea was actually a vineyard with root rot.
The apple a small pomegranate.
The snake a macaw who had a penchant for persuasion. They met in transit under the largest tree in the center of Central Park. She, holding four steaming hot cups of Venti Hazelnut Latte (one with soy). He, relaxing against the trunk with his legs propped up and a joint between his beak, perfectly rolled in pink raspberry rolling paper. When she tripped it was because of his smoky O’s and not because he stuck his foot out like everyone says he did. He only wanted her attention. He thought she was a fine catch. A most suitable victim.
Hot brown dripped down her neck and into the crevice between her breasts. “I’m going to be late,” she said.
And he, “Let me help you with that,” patting the front of her shirt with his wing.
A black bra peeked out from the edge of her blouse. A mole sat just above it.
“I’m going to be late,” digging through her purse for the pocket watch whose large hand had, at that exact moment, turned six minutes back.
“Let me,” and brought from his knapsack a travel-size stain remover kit.