First Thing

You look like a monster, one woman said to another.

The woman was on fire. This is the first of two screws

twisted into a wall. One bus is sent on its route minutes before

the other. This is the first. Thousands of soldiers were lowering

their faces to the grass, as though an exercise

can will an effect. People made their way to the hospital:

a doctor would look at them, and then they could die.

You can dip a line of monofilament into a river.

You can do it twice. The first becomes a second. The second

becomes a third. Three girls stretched out their arms while the wind

sheared their flesh. Sheared, not seared, what was left.

I could have shown you a swimming pool lit with turquoise light.

It was early. It was a mission. It wasn’t the first.