MIRACLE FRUIT poems by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Dorset, Vermont: Tupelo Press, 2003

Falling Thirds

We measure our names the same.
Across the world, when children
call out for a friend, their mother,

their favorite white goat—they have
the same intonation, the same fall
and lilt to their voice, no matter

their language: Jahhn-nee! Mah-ma!
Peh-dro! My music teacher friend says
this is falling thirds: this is proof we spoke

the same language before Babel, that maybe
a tower did fall into rock and dust, gilding
our tongues slicker past any understanding.

We speak little wants, call little kisses
Into our ears across beanfields, sand,
saltwater. Still we sing the same songs.

© Aimee Nezhukumatathil