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first words
phillip b. williams
a storm and so a gift.
its swift approach
lifts 1 from the road.
a fence is 2 in
the course of the storm's
worse attempt at language --
thunder's 3. a tree
is torn apart,
blown upward through a bedroom
window. a boy winnows
through the pile
of 4 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 5 smashed into
smaller 6 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,
the 7 of fear on their faces
he could never
recreate, his body born
without pain. when his skin's
8 welts
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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