First Words
Phillip B. Williams
A storm and so a gift.
Its swift approach
lifts gravel1 from the road.
A fence is flattened2 in
the course of the storm's
worse attempt at language --
thunder's umbrage3. A tree
is torn apart,
blown upward through a bedroom
window. A boy winnows
through the pile
of shards4 for the sharpest parts
from the blown-apart
glass. He has
a bag that holds found edges
jagged as a stag's
horns or smooth as
a single pane5 smashed into
smaller panes6 that he sticks
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,
