We measure our names the same.
Across the world, when children
call out for a friend, their mother,
their favorite white goat—they have
the same intonation, the same fall
and litlt to their voice, no matter
their language; Jahh-ee! Mah-ma!
Pehh-dro! My music teacher friend says
this is falling thirds: this is proof we spoke
the same language before Babel, that maybe
a tower did fall into rock and dust, gliding
our tongues slicker past any understanding.
We speak little wants, call little kisses
into our ears across beanfields, sand,
saltwater. Still, we sing the same songs.