The First Human

Michelle Agaron | Fall 2021

The day is wasting away when you call me,
tear-streaked and surrounded by sterility.
You say you went looking for a creation myth and
found the fading pulse of a broken wing instead.

My arms fail to wrap around you, a figment
of my computer screen, but your pixels are
scrunching up in breathless agony so I scramble
for my vial, mix in the minute hands and
present the tonic the self-help books
preach about day in / and day out.

But you are already shaking you head,
the corners of your lips holding on for
dear life as the words r i p from your mouth
and beg my bloodied head for an answer to all this.

We didn’t know then that one day
you would fill in the dimensions of the ocean
with your fingertips, raise my eyes to meet
the sunsets unfolding at our feet,
climb onto benches and proclaim
your gratitude for a change
in latitude to strangers who
already love you.

Lone traveler, do you know what I see
when I close my eyes now?
Every atom in the world,
waiting to be understood.

In a dream, they spoke to me.
They said you were the first human
to ask about their day.