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.