They name him after an ocean
because second children need
to be able to take up space
like only water can.
They name her after a feeling
because when words are too big to explain
the colour of the air between us,
names just have to do.
They name the twins after two mountains.
Their sadness at being separated
forming halos of mist
that creep across the town
towards each other.
Weaving and pouring
into the valley
where the first twin lives still.
They name her after the sound of an omen.
A bird who has two cries;
one that mimics the heart beat,
and the other a shriek that pierces
every bird, every man, with a single stone.
By the time you hear her call
you already know it is coming.
The sound of water on a wound.
They name me after the southern winds.
Not because I am violent.
Not because I am cold then warm
in the same breath.
But simply because I don’t exist
unless I am touching the world around me.
Tugging at the skirts of my mothers.
Beating the water further
and further onto the sand,
breathing in the mountain’s ice
and blowing it through the bones.
But some days I look in the mirror,
and through myself reflected
but the gentle dance
in the open window.