What I am most jealous of in the world, your first,
what you are most jealous of in this world, I don’t know.
Your first is oozing from your sleepy face.
What you bring each time you come here.
I want to destroy your first.
What is it about your face that makes me jealous?
What is what? Even I don’t know.
Maybe it is like the first milk out of your mother.
Your first is made of that.
You open a photo album, look at your first. Maybe the first inside a photo thinks of you. I think it thinks of you. Your first loves you. It hides inside the photo, and your wrists fly over the keyboard like a train over the wilderness. First, First, First. They ransack every car. Your first. Where is it hiding? Warm shy first like the steam off the milk sucked out of your mother, first becoming your body in a single shiver. The rush you get from meeting your first, as when a flock of geese flies into a red sun. Is your first there now, smiling softly while you write me a good-bye, thinking of you even harder from inside the photo? The great loneliness of floating, crouched inside your mother’s belly. Your first love shared that loneliness. All the firsts in the world have knives inside their hearts. Is there anything as heartless as a first? The first always cuts. The first always dies. It dies the moment it is called ‘first’. First is a piece of your mouth, cut and running. First. First. First. First. Your two wrists run over the keyboard alone and bodiless, you and your first, what the two-headed dog runs after howling on a moonlit night. What you forgot that you didn’t even know you had forgotten. Dead. Your first is dead. Your first is still there beating at your temples.
Your first. My first. Firsts that will never meet.
Shall I walk toward you as if we just met, and say:
I lost my first. And so did you. So how about we hold hands and kiss?
Shall I ask you like that?
And then, your first is end, over, off.
Dead. De ad. D e a d.
Should I tell you like that?