Of course it was he
who did the naming, my little king
strolling the loam, ducking under dripping boughs
pointing, you, over there, now you and you and you,
meaning, no, you’re not one of us, neither are you, so now
let me tell you what you are, stuffing each catch with
taxonomies and syllables, displaying each in the cage
words make. I tried hard not to roll my eyes, followed along,
teased his arrogance by silly-making his labels, un-naming
his possum a bristled midnight whisker-did,
his raccoon a clutchy-pawed, rock-hopping fish-washer,
his chipmunk a racing-striped, seed-cheeking zinger
unzipping the brambles in a toothy squeakflash.
When he bristled, I backed off, softsaying,
Oh, my Adam. Always so serious, said nothing
of his un-miracling miracles,
each signified being ignorantly blinking
at the sound of their new name, refusing to come
when he called. Frustrated, he sped up
as an auctioneer might, faster and louder—
fox! wolf! cricket! grizzly!—
lemur! toad! cicada! hawk!—
and when I couldn’t resist, I said,
Oh, Adam, don’t you know? That eyelashed
fellow too tall to bend his knees, we just met him,
remember? Don’t call him giraffe. His name is
God. When he didn’t laugh, I quit
sassing, told him what was on my mind, said,
Look up in the trees, my upright clay thing, my loneliest
animal divided and dividing himself
from the rest. See that quivering, that common
acorn quizzer curving a question mark with his tail?
He’s telling you the beginning and end to everything
is a question, so don’t try to force answers, honey.
Don’t stomp the garden with your
dictionaries and schemes. He was good and pissed
by then, ready to strike, so when I saw that diamond vine
smelling us with his tongue, I knew what to do,
knew only one thing to keep him
animal, to level the playing field.
Okay, okay, okay, I shushed.
Calm down. I’m sorry. Here,
try a bite of this.