My daughter's name was discovered by
her mother in a crowded bookstore,
as though it had already been
crooned over the car radio
en route to the hospital through
a fresh dusting of December snow.
Some of our ancestors had names that
were changed and changed again,
anglicized by those who claimed
to know best, while others were deemed
unworthy to be recorded at all.
My aunt gave names to her stillborn,
keeping their sacredness to herself,
while our mother taught my brother
and I that our names were known
to the angels, and could be removed
from the Book of Life if we lied or
took the Lord's name in vain.
I thought of this whenever I wrote
in my Big Chief notebook, or read from
my children's Bible, as I thought of
my earthly father, who too remained
faceless, refusing me the family name.
But today, the winter solstice just
behind us, I can hear the gentle swelling
of choral music from the next room --
something that could only be
expressed in Latin, voices so light and airy they can only rise -- as my daughter
calls out one request or another
that I can't quite make out.
But, of course, I answer; I answer
without hesitation, as if this too were
a kind of song I stumbled into,
and must somehow learn on the spot.
