They come into this world, all of them, together. 

A single name lofted on the salt air of their breath.

Tongues, thick with the promise of their first word

rest on rows of brilliant white teeth. Waiting, then mewling

themselves out into the aliveness. Sometimes in these white hot days 

I think you and I are like that.  We were birthed

into this life, early promise cleaving word to word,

hand to hip, lips to shoulder

one body, one name unfurling out

into the future.

Lives within a life.

Some of the hard days I was mute, tongue struck

with the new words we needed,

unsure how to explain them, unsure

how to name us. Name me.

We come into this world, all of us, together,

brine and flesh and salt and need

hurtling us forward, mewling  

in surprise at the sheer 

suddenness of it all. And

we'll be surprised when it suddenly stops.

Whatever our names, whatever

we are for each other now, you and I

will keep naming things

as long as we can, as if we were the first

to name them.  Aster. Sundial. Milkweed. Brick.

Words spinning like a night sky above

our upturned faces. Our names, new and fresh, thrown out

into the endless turning of the world.

Colleen Keefe, 2020