This poem was published by ROOM magazine in vol. 34. 2, 2011

I.

I am in a garden
tasked with naming
someone whom I have not yet met.
There are stories of those who wait to name their child
until long after the birth.
The stories are spit out –
“the gall” of someone to leave a helpless creature
floundering around in the new universe,
not yet placed,
not yet sucked into the warmth of the known world. 

(I am envious
of small creatures
that manage to stay within mystery—
even if only for one hour).

An unusual snail has been reported –
found in the depths of the Indian ocean
armoured with metallic scales.
Still unclassified,
still yet to be investigated,
still needing a name.
It subsists on slick rock
amongst the hot currents.
Ready, guarded, protecting a secret—
it keeps near the one last sacred place.

Then in Borneo there was a picture taken
of a large cat-like animal—
the Mysterious Mammal.
The flash is garish.
In the over-exposure
it stares—
white-eyed. 

I imagine it slinks back to the shaded forest
where mysteries still grow fat and entice.

II.

There are some things I can name—
my small boxes of randomized objects
labeled clearly:
buttons
stamps
cards
memorabilia
1998 travel pictures—
These things I try to keep ordered
so that I don’t have to go looking.

III.

A la lisiere du bois
The postcard propped on my windowsill
kept all these years.
At the edge of the woods.
On it, a woman in tight eighteenth century dress,
she is contained, restrained in an ivory corset –
waist cinched to perfection
head propped on high white ruffles,
she’s carrying an umbrella,
the sky is blue.
But her eyes are wild,
her hands are flailed and searching.
she won’t be found out here –
she shouldn’t be found out here.
She has left her sharp, defined existence
in search of the beautiful murkiness of the grey, shadowy wood.
(I envy her mystery – who she is, where she came from).
Behind her there is a fringe—
all the purples and greys of a thicket.
The forest drops away
into the spindly arms
of trees.

I want to whisper to her –

linger until your edges blur,
move until your dress mixes with the forest shadows.

IV.

to call
utter
summon
recite
until there is substance
speak aloud until there is being.

Five letters form you—
your name
five letters sounded out
impassively,
my mouth opening and closing
around the hard consonant in the centre,
the softer consonants at the edges
Jacob
the open vowels like pockets of air
spreading you out before me.

And I –
I have been spoken,
a word with new substance.
I form
in the mouths that call me,
vowels and consonants
shape a sound,
I must try to live up to meaning
one word
sauntering around on the earth
trying to find a context,
a sentence to live in.

I hear my second name spoken
and I turn
to find silent knowing.

V.

Your head is a moon,
drifting in the distance.
Your hand flutters through the expanse

the wand, the screen, my eyes

Your bones are the land,
laid out like petals across a floor—
spine dancing like aurora borealis across the blackness.

I’m looking into water,
the top of your mouth is the starry sky,
spread out across the reflection,
your eyes show a path—

Breathing is a circle —
into the upper body, out through the lower

You are
not yet named,
suspended in negative space,
you are waiting for recognition.