Creation (Poetry)

Frank sourced the parts from any place he could —
recycling was a concept he embraced
but feared the practice ultimately would
lead to trouble — find his name disgraced
as neighbours gossiped ugly rumours spread
that Frank was interfering with the dead.

The jigsawed body was a work of art —
his surgeon’s stitches neat, his cutting clean —
he took such pains with every well-chilled part
to match the skin tone, eye and blade both keen
he crafted flesh into a perfect wife
quite beautifully made but lacking life.

The next stage was more tricky — his idea
was based upon a theory never proved —
discarding jump leads, it was all too clear
a greater force was needed so he moved
her body near the socket where he jammed
three fingers of her unresponsive hand.

Her eyelids flickered as the mob broke in
and several thousand volts shot through her head,
the lights went out and through the darkened din
she heard Frank moan (before he dropped down dead)
‘It worked on Adam, but my arm feels odd —
guess that’s the risk you take when playing God.’