Nomenclature

Once you might have named her

the velvety redness of a rose unfolding—

       sun-fiery, undaunted, and open to the sky.

Or touched her

as a crimson petaled jellyfish—

       opening, closing, pulsing her body gently through salty brine.

Or known her

as the deepest well—

       a clandestine viscosity where desires undulate thick

       in a pool to overflowing.

Once you might have likened her

to the stillness of an icy dawn,
to that expansive winter hour before the world
stretches back to life and pink-blue fingers begin

unzipping the shroud of night.

Once you might have recognized her.

      
In those moments still dark

when dreams become snowflakes

echoing promises to snowy ground.

And once
you might have
described her.

As flamencoed hands
along the ribs rushing
lost, abandoned,

to the click of unrelenting castanets.

Or

as laughter, longing, need, ache, loneliness, hunger, love, poverty, and want. 

But in the days of her unraveling,
she becomes a stranger. 

And you don't know what name to speak.

Or what language you will use when you call for her again.

You don't yet realize that the heart unmoored

will grow a new chord, will become a child returning

for the umbilicus again.

Or that given time

the heart will launch herself determined

out to sea for another go.