The Nostalgist’s Guide to Naming the Lizard That Washes Up on Your Porch During the Flood

COHORT 7

When the lizard washes up on your porch like an omen during the flood, 

name it blue after the first time you ever saw the ocean and

realized that most of the world occurs where you are not.

When the lizard crawls up your toes and requests asylum,

name it yes after your father, who asked your mother to marry him

in the middle of a desert, where a single jackal howled at his proposal.

When the lizard curls around your leg and your two skins become like envelopes,

name it electric after the first kiss in a Pennsylvania storm, with raindrops

the size of tongues over your back, and mosquito bites all down your thighs.

When you pluck the lizard, writhing, from your body, to toss it

back into the water lapping at your door, to be washed away like in Genesis,

name the lizard nothing after the horizon that will inevitably swallow it, 

distant and indiscernible in the midst of all this trembling water, all this flood.

Writing: Megan Lunny

Music: Riva Rubin