Jane Zwart
At the very beginning it is only tornadoes,
daily tornadoes, in all colors, funnel clouds
funneled through a child's fist. You would
hardly call those pictures, though; sooner
call them art. The pictures come later.
Quadrupeds whose species you guess
at a hazard, a lizard almost the twin
of a cow. A great circle in the sky, a sun.
And then the kid draws bipeds, their arms
resolving into weapons more detailed
than any face. These are the earliest
pictures. Well, I am tempted, too, to lie,
to call another drawing first: this family,
say, macrocephalic and levitating, en pointe.
But they have not even heard of wind,
these cartoons dressed in our clothes.