On The Tip of My Tongue

The knowing of names is old and deep –
the first thing they give you, the first to go.

You took for granted what you needed to know
was engraved on your brain. You thought it would keep
but you’re faced with blank faces. The names sink deep,
a nightfall of ducks aligned in a row.

Remembering names does not come cheap.
The first thing they give you, the first to go.

There’s faces and labels you swirl in your sleep.
You get it all wrong and end up eating crow,
lose it completely and pretend you’re just slow
while those once unique remain nameless as sheep.

The knowing of names is old and deep,
the first thing they give you, the first to go.

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Mary Cresswell is a poet and science editor. Born in Los Angeles, she moved to New Zealand in 1970. Her poetry has appeared in New Zealand, Australian, Canadian, US and UK literary journals. Janis Freegard writes, “Mary Cresswell’s poetry is an adventure playground where experiments in form and ingenious wordplay are part of the game… She’ll make you smile and she’ll make you think.”