The first human was a creeping meal
of cells and mimesis, loose-limbed and covered

in fuzz. A new sluice of water and food and
want. They watched the other creatures and

followed neat, spreading themselves wider
over the rocks to dine on the earth’s

wine-sweet bibelot. No name, just repetition
without expectation, like a garden that blooms

in the umbra of a bleached ruin. Swallow and sleep
and wander. No shame or will to gather.

To collect. Blooded-up and innocent, naked and
content. Difference was a skeleton key

in the door of survival, otherwise useless—like
sameness. Glow patterned itself around

their body like a cure, not some crude
hammer. The first god? Their grinning twin

born mere minutes before, waiting to make of love
an iterative con, interest compounding.