I know dada is never
a fatherless child’s first word—
but second? Third? Fourth?
Have I ever said dada
in thirty-seven years,
outside the art movement?
Wasn’t I already speaking
in full sentences, whole thoughts,
when a father-shaped substrate,
like compost drawn
from the bottom of the pile,
surfaced as I turned it?
What word could I reach for now
to name him?
Not dada.
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