Kyla Guimaraes
“Nomenclature”
Before the forgetting began, you were afraid.
It was summer and we still thought we could
become young again. There, in the heat,
we would sit on the floor in your room
cross-legged beside the white floor fan.
I’d spend hours memorizing the taste
of your name in my mouth, and vice versa.
There you promised me the absence
of memory would never overwhelm.
Soon, you started to wake up in the mornings
only to find everything awash in a yellowing
blur. The color smearing like the sweat stains
on my white tee-shirt those summer days
in your room. I’d visit your bedside and open
the window to let in the cooling air. We’d peer
through the transparent glass and name things.
You were always wrong. You claimed
the butterflies were pigeons. You said
it was still summer. You called the blue
sky different shades of yellow: canary,
lemon, cream. All in butchered
English—pork rinds seeping out from behind
your gums to reveal the habitual lilt
of mother tongues. When we pulled
back from the window to look at each other,
you’d stare intently at my mouth.
Like you were trying to locate my name
in muscle memory. “Smile”, you said,
pointing at my frown. A fortune teller—
I always proved you right, and smiled.
The butterflies look more like pigeons
now, when I see them. Winter feels warm.
And the sky pulses yellow rings around
the sun’s hungry glow. There, on your bed,
you’d try to remember my name. The yellow,
frosting air invading your mouth and scrambling
the words. “Name me,” I insisted. You would
search insatiably for the right words.
The syllables were always wrong—
but the sound was right, because it was said
in your voice.
Kyla Guimaraes is a student and writer from New York City. Her writing has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers and Young Poets Network, and can be found in The Penn Review, Aster Lit, and Blue Marble Review. Kyla is a poetry editor for Eucalyptus Lit. In addition to writing, she enjoys going on walks in the rain.
