The Individual

The Individual

You walked into the room without asking for shape.

Some teacher, once, tried to give you one—square, sharp-edged—

but you came already curved, already blooming in odd directions.

Some mornings you held the book upside down

and smiled. Some mornings you counted

in colors instead of numbers.

I have learned this: not all knowing fits the page.

Sometimes it waits inside a drawing of a horse

that only you can see.

There is a name you’ve never spoken out loud,

a rhythm in your foot that keeps time

with no drum.

And if I miss it—if I mistake the sway of your questions

for wandering—I lose something irreplaceable.

It is not my job to hammer you into place.

It is to notice.

To make room for the ways you name the world

without asking permission.