Click Beetle

I named you because I had to, my bright incantation,
because I was told all wild, gleaming,
snapping things were meant to be catalogued
and called like chants, like whispered omens, like spells.
This is how wild things are tamed, how rare things
are treasured. So I named you,
but I couldn’t call you what I wanted,
couldn’t say the name of any glimmering thing:
dogbane, giant stag, golden tortoise, Hercules.
Couldn’t call you after shining things,
little pieces of jewelry, iridescent as bubbles,
their shells metallic and just as hard.
I couldn’t call you after luminous, monstrous things,
with their backs as bright as the bite of their pincers.
I couldn’t name you after a wild thing, an animal thing,
the thing that you are, little beast,
little glimmering, clicking creature.
I named you because I had to.
I named you Henry because little else would fit.