by George Sawaya

Perhaps it was with headache, or claustrophobic pangs 
of boredom, that Adam, when marched before him, 
named you so plainly.  Too much enthusiasm his earlier 
entitlings had taken—Orangutan, Boa, Gull—that you 
were a frustration, dismissible fix, glue 
in the wound of a process he never imagined 
could take so long.  What could God need with you 
after all?  He had the Vulture and the Cardinal already, 
the Octopus, the Bull, the Hare.  But you,  feckless 
bead of sky, no talons to speak of, no 
hooked beak, hopped to your place to be named.  
Imagine, please, the dedication, his calling of the trees—
Spruce and Cedar, Gumball and Dogwood—
to say nothing of the flowers, the insects, the grass.  
Whatever sin, our impatience with you, understand. 
And so forgive us our shortcut, as we attempt you 
justice now:  Fat Vein of Hands, Atoll Water, 
Lover’s Eye, the Feeling You Get Some Mornings 
after Dreaming You Were a Child Again.