First Word

Aardvark curls up on the upper left hand corner of Webster,

and I can’t help looking at its long sticky tongue.

It flicks and snaps, then I think of your face-

your puckered frown stuck in the middle.

And you tell me to stop calling you Aardvark,

your fury and disapproval in cross arm glares

and silent conversations.

You never could understand how this was the first word

I gave you as a gift in nickname wrapping and affection ribbon.

No matter how I explain the story, over and over,

as a school girl with my blue treasure dictionary,

then you were the first person to sit across from me

and I gave you Webster’s first precious definition.

Spread each letter as its own gem

and pinned it next your name

as its own love story.

You can only ask if I think you have a long snout

or if you wobble too much as you walk

or if you stay up too late at night.

I can give you answers in shaking head and soft giggles,

and whisper Aardvark as I walk away.