Published in Centrifugal Eye

Names

It’s true
I often write poems
just to use certain words. It’s true
I dream of babies just for their names.
I have twenty-six journals
cradling sleeping names.
My L book revealing:
Luther, Lux, Lucille, Lou.
The twenty-seventh book
is an index. Silly names:
Snoopy, Coda, Turtle, Iris.
Theme names:
Helvetica, Garamond.
My old nicknames:
Sleepyhead, Stinky. I smile
despite the deprecation –
they’ve already wedged a sweet association
in the cavities of my brain.
Rich, supple, elastic. Lucille, I want to yell
into space. Claudio. Mathilde. I wrote a book
just so two characters with first-class names
could fall in love. I am one of those people
who repeats your name and looks you in the eye.
I do it at least ten times
an hour. A name in another’s mouth,
like a mute boy’s kiss, makes a person feel
like a person. I love to hear, Christine, Christine.
A name is a gesture that goes to sleep
and wears a cotton hat. When I meet
another Christine, I relax slightly. My name,
unlike myself, wears a form
of permanence.

There is no such thing
as a terrible name. There is no such thing
as a ruined name, always an unborn baby
waits to redeem it. There is no such thing
as a secret name. I want to enter
forests, beaches, cities, christen every rock
and plant and piece of candy,
name them all after names waiting
to redeem themselves like Jezebel
or signs for the deaf

like a sleepy boy with a cotton hat
sitting down with his entire shirt
unbuttoned and his hand to his bottom lip
touching it as though something
inside of it could pop.