First Night   Even the light here is wrong, and the darkness is lethal, like poison gas. Are they making that sound on purpose — in the far corner, that scraping, that hiss, and the way it stops when I try to listen? The smell is wrong — something dead in that smell, or not quite dead, dying, and that’s worse. No one tells me anything about why it’s too hot, then suddenly too cold, or why I can’t seem to sleep, or remember. I can’t trust the water here, it burns, there’s something in it, my mouth stays dry like I’m drinking dust, coating my throat with soot, with static. Why am I here? Everything they say’s a lie.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont August 2011