Ahboo

Glottal, bilabial, mostly
monosyllabic—you speak the same tongue
as Carlos Williams' sea-elephant,
the exquisite gibberish that is poetry.

Sometimes, high pitched like dolphin talk.
I wonder, if you sang off San Juan's bay
would the porpoises understand
and spout saltwater in agreement.

What you do not say is clearest.
Your face is a satellite,
sending crisp signals to receiving eyes,
fluent in the ethereal language of minds.

And the message is ever-changing.
Your world is a cliff—
always on the brink of plummeting
into laughter, tears,

forehead rippling confusion.
But there is always a pair of legs
to run towards and embrace. For that,
your life we envy.

All of us who look down to you
at some point wish we could grab our world
by the hem of its dress
and tug until someone takes notice,

or until two brown arms
lower from the sky—reaching
to lift us up—and carry us for the time
we need to be carried.