Appalonea Miller Voisin (1840-1901)
There may have been a time when
your name went unnoticed: Amethyst,
Hortensia, and Emerald Maisie Hopes
were your chums, your names
sparkling off the page like so much paste
and silver plate. The Chinese
say your are not truly dead
until the last soul who knew your name
forgets it. Somehow we misplaced yours
against remarkable odds: a name
like a bird that sings its own,
or conjures up music
and hard fruit. Winesap, Golden
Delicious, the loud applause of wind
in the dry leaves of autumn.
But not a single shining image
of the human face. Grandfather’s
grandmother, anyone we both knew
is dead now, and rooting
through certificates and microfilm
we’ve found every vital statistic but your face.
So I talk, and your name
is the only answer. Appalonea. Apotheosis
of appellations, a plum of pure sound.
Apollo, Apollonius, Apollinaire.
The great Johnny Appleseed
who gave us a peachy cider, a press,
and a pint of apple jack. I’m drunk
in the swirl of your name, the way
it applies to everything I see:
that strong grayish horse
across the field: Appaloosa,
a portrait but not a picture,
a prize, a poem, Appalonea.