In the beginning, all the world was America.
Sharp rainy seasons, skies scaled with mica.
Bright wind. Brittle lakes. The air would flinch
with lightning and a flex of nameless birds
fell to the grass, tumbling in wadded cinders.
Their taste taught migration to plain herds.
Animals devoured each other, hacked clotted fur
growing the claws and shoulders of those they ate.
In the beginning, action wasn’t separate
from fear. There was one language: swollen branch
and stifled breathing. Even as the rain ended,
the small remnant fears beaded each leaf crimp.
Crowded in pools, we were born. Our necks pinned,
we stared up, afraid we were the beginning
and could not be killed without being forgiven.