That name I was given was a tool
to taunt my grandfather-
I was not told-
how to use.
He loved me best, more than his own.
And I have wrestled with its odd shape
and sharp turns on my tongue.
Walked on past when people stumble over it
and twist it to suit their native mouths
translation is just a place to hold things,
this placeholder for me is only temporary...
Life's a bloom until you become part of the potpourri,
which is why the dry blooms last longer.
I would be of the waxflower variety,
piney and if this name a color
it must be yellow-although it sounds more like
an oboe, not a cello.
If you could only touch me, I'd be satin-
sometimes
velvet.
My name would grow like a city, Odessa
with more steps.
This misshapen label matches me
even though I know contradictory;
looks like summer, feels like snow.
And so not the tool I thought I wanted
yet when fashioned to fit precisely
the only one that could work on me.
I now know this tool was used
to pry my grandfathers' irritation open
every time he picked it up
and held it tight.
He loved me best.
Its protrusions also make my mouth bleed.
And I have casually passed by when others
grimace and contort it by twisting
their own cherry knot tying tongue.
It is just a name,
to hold me
in his passing voice
temporarily
It fits.
Photo by Ohannes Kurkdjian [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
