In those first days, when I discovered
my lips, my tongue, my teeth,
and what they could do, I named
the other creatures without rhyme or reason,
named them first just to hear myself
speak, then to hear the different sounds
out loud: the click and smack,
the hiss and oh—but how could I
possibly remember all the names?
So I tried to find sounds to match—
to catch their squeal, their chitter and squeak.
I parroted their low bellows, hee haws. I gaped
and gawked, close then far, aped their odd
bulges, squat waddles, bulky shapes. To ferret out a name
or two or three, I stuck my nose in to sniff the awful
kick, stuck my tongue out to taste the salty sweet
lick, brushed names against cheeks and the backs of knees
to feel the heat and slick of them, reached underneath
to finger the tickling prick of them, but the more I
named the less they mattered until one day,
near drunk with the power of it, I stumbled
onto the secret of dominion: I decided—
gazelle or skunk—I named them
and forever after they were mine.