Like a balloon, they say, when they hear us, as if to be deliberate in dismissal
of the possibility that what is being loosed here is an admonition. They consider
it a mandate to avoid any reference to a common soul, especially the possibility
of some familiar lamentation, they can’t say we are naming ourselves,
renaming ourselves in our own image. They can’t speak
of our ambitions, our undisclosed wishes, our furtive wonder or clandestine
grief. They can no sooner detect these than they can remember
what it was like in the age of the flowering plants when forests
stretched pole to pole and everywhere the shallow seas when we
splashed together, laughing, before the lines of our bodies separated at
the forked branch in the palm of our last common mother, as if to
prophesy some glorious calamity that would make one of us forget
our common womb. What did you think, we call,
when you noticed we would not live for you in captivity?
One, listening, observes: We are here. Here,
Inspired by a recent New York Times article about singing lemurs in Madagascar.