We call each other everything
except by name.
I name her what she is not.
I place her into categories
where she does not belong.

In naming we take meaning away
from words, we shift them, 
claim them, they become ours.
Gestures—empty of logic yet full of
substance and sound.

She becomes my mother, my chair, 
an object, a soother.
Her arms extend to every facet
of my being, through regions
where I could not otherwise find her.

Naming allows her to do so,
lending her presence as if she were
here, living with me in my books. 
Don’t call her what she is, 
reducing her to friendship.

Let her fly over me
as a breath bursting with sound.