It isn’t merely the fact
that she isn’t what she was,
nor that she isn’t

not only what she is.
It’s that now, she’s never,
ever, what we call her.

This change began
—her most perplexing instar—
around the seventh zodiac.

Frantic, we planned an attack.
Words and water: a guerrilla
christening. But no luck,

no nomenclature stuck.
Now librarians can’t
shelve her, and the post offices

pile up with letters
unaddressed. She must
return, to send her,

some guessed. If you
want to help, we gather
every third evening, chanting

names like vespers,
a long line of flashlights
sweeping through the cedars.

Sometimes she even joins
our number. Calls to herself,
hoping she answers.