Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, in the park, you shrieked, my butt, my butt hurts, after a little sand had worked its way into your labial folds. Your two-year-old voice piercing as a hawk’s. I held you open in bright sunlight to make sure I removed every tiny grain as you whimpered and flinched no matter how gentle I tried to be. I don’t have all the answers, but when you ask today, I have these names at least to give you. Today we have naming of parts. And tomorrow, you will chant the words over and over in the way of toddlers, entranced by repetition. But today we have naming of parts. This is the labia, where the sand hurt you yesterday. The labia protects the vagina, where when you are older, blood will come out once a month, like the full moon you love. It doesn’t hurt to bleed like this. The vagina is also where babies come out. Where you came out. A ring of fire before the circlet of my flesh tore just a little just one stitch needed to hold me together again When I was young, maybe five or six — I don’t remember as much as I would like to — two older boys shoved sand down my underwear. I stood, shocked, then began to cry for the shame and then the hurt when I tried to walk. Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter while I hobbled, bow-legged, trying to lessen the pain of the grit between my legs. I didn’t know the word labia then. I didn’t tell my mother what happened. Yes, I believe it was a sunny day. Or was it cloudy? But I am one hundred percent certain grape hyacinth bloomed beside the swings. Today we have naming of parts. This is the urethra, where pee comes out. And this is the anus, where poop comes out. Here is the clitoris. It feels good to touch. No one else should be touching you in these places except family while cleaning you or a doctor checking if you are hurt. I am here today not because I want to be. I am here because I believe it is my civic duty to tell you the truth Today we have naming of parts. This is not a flower. This is not a peach. This is the labia. This is the vagina. Not the sheath of an ear of grain. This is the clitoris. Not a key nor a little hill. This is the urethra. This is the anus. The parts are yours. The names, yours. This is my wish.   The power of true names,   capable of binding, a circle of protection, these words a ward in your little girl voice, the sweet and singsong lilt as you try each sound, make what I believed unlovely lovely, charming, a charm against evil. I am here because I cannot hold you within the circle of myself the way I once did our edges blurred you broke free shrieking fierce little eyas don’t let them break you you are here I am here we will utter the truth of ourselves For today we have naming of parts.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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