For my niece.
She takes the toy in her one-month
hand still growing and shakes it.
The rattling sound shakes the
air in kind, colliding particles
of plastic with her laughter.
Already she's learning the texture
of things bearing names not her
own, which is to say words have
no use to her at this age one calls
tender. Language being what it is, it's
hard not to think at once of that soft
hand, and the imaginary jingling
of currency entering another's
palms—more weathered, let's
say—in exchange for the toy
now shaken. One wonders how
the words she'll one day learn could
ever compete, whether the world
still unfolding itself before
those growing limbs could keep
its unspoken promises waiting
for her to discard them—break
them, she might learn to say—
for better, lasting pleasures.
Notes
I chose to share this poem with dVerse for their Open Link Night (December 12, 2024).
Between Two Rivers 
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