the consequence of being on the receiving end of a tragic poem

I created her from a rib acquired through self-extraction,

placing the creation into an environment

suitable to the economic station I set for her.

I jostled her into positions according to my preferences

and she followed those pathways at my direction.

I allowed her to be considerably younger than me, and

under my tutelage she spoke with an admirable

clarity of voice in matters concerning her existence.

and then––

and then she became sick.

gravely ill. I made her that way.

I smeared her lungs with demon cancer.

I reduced her weight, toned her flesh

a pall of grey, and watched the struggle

during her dying exhalations putting an end

to the beauty I once bequeathed to her, and I tell you

if God was a poet, it’d be me.