Naming Words

She who treasured books
now calls them thingummyjigs,
stirs her tea with the doodah,
asks where her whatisname is.

Snatches of poetry,
shopping lists, nursery rhymes
colonise her, clog her days
with repetitive tedium,
fill mine with fear.

I dreaded their going, these naming words,
for without them we are fog-bound,
no light to guide us home.

            and with them goes my name.
            Slinking away.
            No apology.

Last week I was Bobby, our long-dead son.
Today I’m her cousin
gone to Australia forty years ago.
Soon - maybe tomorrow
I will have no name.

Only her question.

Christine Griffin


If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Christine Griffin would be pleased to hear them.