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First Words
Phillip B. Williams
A storm and so a gift.
Its swift approach
the course of the storm's
worse attempt at language --
is torn apart,
blown upward through a bedroom
window. A boy winnows
through the pile
from the blown-apart
glass. He has
a bag that holds found edges
jagged as a stag's
horns or smooth as
his hand inside
to make blood web across
his acheless skin flexing
like fish gills
O-lipped for a scream
they cannot make.
He wants to feel
what his friends have felt,
he could never
recreate, his body born
without pain. When his skin's
don't rake a whimper
from his mouth, he runs
outside, arms up
for the storm, aluminum
baseball bat held out
to the sky
until lightning, with an electric
tongue, makes his viscera
luminescent;
the boy's first word for pain
is the light's
new word for home.
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