Take the day,
for example,
my older sister asked
me
the abbreviation for the state
of Maine
and in my head,
a disconnect,
her words
not making sense
to me,
thinking she wanted
the acronym
for some psychological
condition of being
“main” or “mane.”
I don’t understand what that means,
I said,
and she looked at me exasperated
and repeated, You know, the state, the state
of Maine?
I still didn’t understand her:
I have never heard of that before, I insisted.
What was this affliction?
What were the symptoms,
and was not understanding
your own language
one of the signs?
When someone is
in this state,
do they ever get out of it?
And if they do recover,
in that moment
of healing,
do words and phrases
unexpectedly
make sense,
like the apostles
suddenly struck
with the gift of tongues,
not quite sure how
they were forming
the sounds coming out of their mouths
but trusting that they were Good?
Maybe the State of Main
was this sensation
of knowing
washing over me,
when she finally said, sighing,
The state, the state—
you know how there
are fifty states in the country
that we live in
and one of them is called Maine
and it has an abbreviation
which we put on envelopes
to send letters to people.
And your name is Damian,
and I am your sister.
Oh! I exclaimed,
for the word
and the world
once again
made sense:
ME.
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