My name has aquatic roots. It exists on
rich soils infused with the sweetness
of rivers and lakes. Which is to say,
it lies in derivations like wrinkled fingertips
soaken by endless tepid showers
hiding their folds from themselves.
These are groundless
roots and this ground is a stable room walled
with meanings to claim for my own.
Except my name only means
whatever came before.
In another lifetime, nymphs used to vanish into the depths
of flowers, legs scribbled with hieroglyphic bark,
and my name appeared
through the recollections of previous words,
misspelled translations, desiccated manuscripts
trapped in the creases
of centennial lips. It sprung from stagnated bodies
of water as if my body did not know
what to make of itself. Another body has created another
texture for other mouths to mouth out loud
when tasting every letter. Prickly with language
twists, Francisca loops itself over
Frances and Francis and Frank like nenufares
becoming water lilies in ancient springtime.