Maybe one more, one more at the end of this sequence
when she's coming into language.
And I stopped writing this and then collaborated with her,
where I have a whole other book of collaborations with Miranda.
But let's see here.
Anything that's got an epigraph by Billie Holiday.
(SINGING) Mandy's two, mommy is blue
because her little girl is going on three.
But this Amanda's as proud as can be
because she's a big girl now.
(NORMAL SPEECH) Remember that one?
Miranda's the one writing now.
I am reading.
"I am writing," she says.
Raspberry washable marker making little scratchy
curvies all over the envelope.
"M, D, E," she tones curving up the end of each letter that
moves the pen and says, "I love singing," and "only mommy,"
and "I know that book."
Falling into language, she rises into speech.
For months now, the slowest sent to comprehension.
Conversation unfolds.
Her voice now connects, meaning blocks.
Watching out the back window, "Red bird fly away.
Only baby carry bubbles."
Asserting herself down the street
clutching the bright pink plastic tub,
"Only mommy, only nurse, nurse in car, nurse in bubble,
nurse in Elmo, nurse in book, only nurse."
We can't say sonic nurse, or she'll want to do it again.
Framing this poem, I recall transcribing the last day's
words of my grandmother as she floated from consciousness,
ice chips melting in her mouth.
Miranda, my daughter, rose into language.
The music has had meaning for months,
and now coheres, focuses, relays.
I no longer have to read her mind.
I no longer have to read your mind.
You can tell me what you want.
I show you an eye pillow, and you make it "bed eye."
Just in July, we walked down the street,
and I realized you could say anything.
So we fed you Shakespeare and Proust.
You can feed back acrobatics, bubby wumps.
Samuel Delaney, upon hearing our alphabetic recitations
of apple, bowl, cat, dog, and egg, et cetera asks,
"Can you say rambunctious?"
You delightedly wrap your teeth around it all.
I say, "You can say anything," and you say "Anything."
And when you see a heart, you say, "It means I love you."