In the beginning, there was garbage:
planks of wood from rotten bedframes,
scraps of paper, frayed wires.
The firstborn creation: a splinter
lodged into my hand, tears of blood
dripping from the pulsing wound.
Priests with torn clothing, matted hair
tend to the altar, bring their gifts
of food wrappers and shattered glass.
Each night we light it on fire
and bring our heads to the ground
as the voice declares: holy, holy, holy.