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285 From the Page to the Pen Nabokov, Naming the Animals Billy Merrell I was speechless. Still he came to me, Sat among these saffron rooms, called me Father. I showed him the earth and he took it In his mouth—I had him name things: The first was simple: he lisped an angel. But when he caught her between his palms And she crumbled, Nabokov wouldn’t stop crying. Even as I turned the leaves to fire, Let the first of the flowers unpetal, trying dumbly To explain how things are meant to die. More came, and he named each, Though he let them live— Orange Albatross; Paris Peacock; Wood Nymph; American Lady. He gave the world its first Question Mark, first Small Postman, First Harvester. Nabokov’s butterflies unfurled, And he never grew tired of them, Though Paradise did. All he had to do was speak, And another wrought angel flitted out of hiding, 286 A Face to Meet the Faces Hungry for color, lighting our sensitive skins. A breath would send them off; a stillness would call them. If I had had a tongue, I would have stopped him, Finished the job myself. But I woke Adam, the lonely one, Who saw their millions and believed He was in Heaven. ...

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