–Robin Wall Kimmerer
Here I am it’s June loose multiple earth-toned getup but
all around me glitter, drawn eyebrows, deep V, and I
hate it—costume, I don’t know how to do it, and
I’m more empty when the world blows through
mine. 30 days of thinking about the failure
of language. To split myself into two: bi-
focal: making whole multiple objects
of attention. Am I writing if I’m online
shopping? Am I “still interested in
women” if I am dating a “man”?
Back to thinking about the failure of language.
Biradical: independent and
odd: quarry full of red lichen—no, sundew:
little mouths look like leaves, a fly
dead in the nectar. Are you a plant if you eat
meat? If you bend to sun like everyone else and also
eat meat? Taker! Who let you open the bi-
orhythm? Who let you be so multiple? Bi-
nomial: me too, I’m at once several
names: Lu, Loon, Crontigue, touch-me
-not, soon, aster, risen woman
taking off her clothes. Risen person
taking off their clothes.
What was worn: fishnets
onto water, breaking the moon into
snakes: flickers running the direction of away,
strewn to black. Naked, what am I called?
Kimmerer says ki—this maple, in spring, ki gives us
rot gone sugar. Ki—snapping turtle in the road.
Lift. Ki opens at mouth, the whole body, ki
will close on you. Open, what am I called?
In the oldest beech, ki carves a name. Ki
is walking the long dog home. All doors
open to ki. Shadows sit with
ki. Hear my name and say
who? Who heard God and
multiplied? Who is a womb? Who
bloomed bitter flowers in the sewer,
whose night is made of walnuts? Who is dark
matter. Who found their name in a plastic
calculator? A heart finally swings
open. Whose? Hear my names
and say open. Who is open as an arch
in a garden, peas climbing spine-up. Who
sweats openly on the brown grass. Who turned
the water off. Who is asking
who asked for this? Who is open enough
to know the miracle of a bee resting
on a shoulder. Who belongs to ki. Who
unlocks the ocean, whose song is
singing up the sun. Lord, open
the eyes of my name, and let me hear.
