Nomenclature

           This is a love poem, be patient.
           –Alison Prine, “Naming the Waves”

In England they name the old oak trees; in Newfoundland, they name
the rocks. I can tell you the names of the birds from my hometown,

but nothing of what they call themselves. Naming is a kind of love,
a gift. My parents named me, in Sanskrit, the word for love.

My favourite part of chemistry class was naming organic compounds.
Simple rules. One right answer. With patience, it could be mastered.

At an airport in India, I kept hearing my name. Other parents, calling
other daughters. Four years old, I shivered with a visceral thrill.

Certain bird names fascinate me—the tautonyms, the hyphens—
Sula sula, the red-footed booby; Bubo bubo, the Eurasian eagle-owl.

I’m drawn by what we have given them. Naming is a kind of love,
but it takes time to know things. While we wait, tell me your name.

In Sanskrit, my name, Sneha, also means oil. How did one word come to have
two meanings so different? How do I master what others have given me?