Blink me a slow name,
blue-faced meadowhawk.
Your ten thousand lens
eyes wink an engulfing
world. Shrink me small in the widening
sphere. Would you call me many
with senses I cannot wield? Name
me hidden harm, bubbling
exponential. Cuttlefish, camouflage
skirt of the seagrass shallows, halo me, polarized
with paradox and puzzle. Please, name me
alloy, single organ of many
iron-bellied bees. Me, magnet
without pair, I bend to the lack
of your baptisms. Mark my forehead. Make
me lure. Goliath birdeater, with the taste
from my footprints, spin hairs along my shadow—
summon the call of my sour. What do you say,
whispering bats, when you thresh
a name? Am I vault or a spinning
vase, slipped in velvet decibels? I am
your likeness, my magpie, echo me. Little echo,
how do you say
the circle of me
when you circle and call? Call me monsoon,
springtails of the shower drain. Dub me flood. Name
me weather. Drought, swamp and surge. Find me
from friction, mark me
with motion—small-eared house shrew,
sing me solid.
—
Cathlin Noonan (she/her) is a poet based out of San Marcos, Texas. Cathlin’s poem “Ghazal With Louse” was a finalist for Crazyhorse‘s Lynda Hull Memorial Poetry Prize for 2022, and her poem “Setting the Record” was a finalist for Broad River Review‘s 2022 Rash Award in Poetry. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Meridian, Denver Quarterly, Salamander, and Lumina among others. She can be found online at cathlinnoonan.com.
