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the first was not a cat, a raven, a fox— the first was not any of the freshly-named adam’s dominion, garden-wandering no, the first was not born from man’s loneliness even if you may think it a rib, a soft thing formed from clay, from dust beneath god’s watchful eye you may think the first was some divine instruction executed word made flesh, fur, feathers a thing that shadows, that bows, that follows print upon print, a diminutive thing no, the first was formless as all firsts are: ancient, universe-dwelling, consciousness not called, but beckoned into existence, dreamed—an angel grown tired of vastness, shucked of amorphic skin, tapping into the curiosity of choice and consequence the first was never man’s thing, content to dominate nature, “all beasts to me, of me and mine” man, god’s first and favorite pet content because all the tiny world was his to wander no, the first loved eve because she did not just wander (but wondered, too) what comes before the morning and the