Blink me a slow name,

blue-faced meadowhawk.

Your ten thousand lens

 

eyes wink an engulfing

world. Shrink me small in the widening

sphere. Would you call me many

with senses I cannot wield? Name

 

me hidden harm, bubbling

exponential. Cuttlefish, camouflage

 

skirt of the seagrass shallows, halo me, polarized

with paradox and puzzle. Please, name me

alloy, single organ of many

iron-bellied bees. Me, magnet

without pair, I bend to the lack

of your baptisms. Mark my forehead. Make me

 

lure. Goliath birdeater, with the taste

from my footprints, spin hairs along my shadow—

summon the call of my sour. What do you say,

whispering bats, when you thresh

 

 

a name? Am I vault or a spinning

vase, slipped in velvet decibels? I am

 

your likeness, my magpie, echo me. Little   echo,

how do you say

the circle of me

when you circle and call? Call me monsoon,

springtails of the shower drain. Dub me flood. Name

me weather. Drought, swamp and surge. Find me

from friction, mark me

 

with motion—small-eared house shrew,

sing me solid.

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

CATHLIN NOONAN (she/her) is a poet out of San Marcos, TX. Her poem “Ghazal With Louse” was a finalist for Crazyhorse‘s Lynda Hull Memorial Poetry Prize for 2022, and her poem “Setting the Record” was a finalist for Broad River Review‘s 2022 Rash Award in Poetry. Her poetry has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Meridian, Salamander, and Pidgeonholes, among others. She can be found online at cathlinnoonan.com.

 

 

The art that appears alongside this piece is “Steady Believer” by JONATHAN KENT ADAMS.