I thought I might give it a name.
It was sweet and it played; it was tame.
The West told me, why not? Go ahead.
But the East shook her dazzling head,
If you give that thing a word,
you’ll teach it hate and fear, I’ve heard.
It tends to hoard and make a lord
of names in cages just like birds.
It’ll think its word is better
than all other ones, I swear.
It’ll label you and know
your label’s different. It’ll care.
I hate to even think – but
it could learn its right from wrong.
Do not name it, please, I beg you.
So, I taught to it a song.
Your life is an egg.
Push on the colors in your lenses,
fall like walls.
Everything that’s ever happened to you is yolk,
fluid firming into feathers;
feel them bristle when you see
an especially interesting tree
and know that it’s more real
than you were ever meant to be.
Don’t be afraid.
One day we’ll leave our starless,
our amniotic rooms
a new parade.
Even as I
trance-like and immobile,
on soft cushions of
I wish it had been you who wrote me into existence.
I wish you’d formed my limbs with your silver-tongued essence.
I wish you had created my mind with your own.
I wish that you had written me, so I could feel known.