My girl says I look daily as I lean over the stove
to heat up a pot of black beans. I don’t have to ask.
She told me yesterday daily means pretty.
The lay of the language shifts beneath our tongues.
Words and meaning inch apart by syllables.
On my way to work, the neighbor may mention
his encyclopedia has had a new litter. Midday,
a new colleague could ask, Where’s a good place
to go for dinosaur?
Big sister explains to little the definition of shwab dube.
I don’t interrupt. I pay attention to their ABC.
If she calls me daily again, I will know how to invent
an answer, a mixture of memory and intuition.
No need to brace myself in the doorframe.