His name is Nibby, short for Nibbler,
or Nibi, water in Anishinaabemowin.
He hails from the alleys of Detroit,
unphased by the rain, the snow,
the leaky faucet & the sink. He listens
when he’s called to, appears
upon a whim. At any point, he is
the center of a room. Will trickle
his way through any seemingly
shut door. He will find you you see:
beneath the covers, tucked away
in your moods. Will seep between
your bicep & chest to nest within
your peripheries. He sniffs out the light
of my prayer candles; there is
a flicker in his pupils. When I sing
in ceremony, he plays along
in the old windowsill, cuddled up
with the glittering resonance of dirt
& broken glass, pawing at the cosmos,
bringing it to Earth with his teeth—
but he casts this all aside. Much
prefers the birdsong, the amusement of
a plastic bag, his purple rubberband.