By the front desk at the visitor center
encased in glass there is a river otter,
stuffed, that my one-year-old daughter
knows how to talk to. She kneels there,
hands pressed to the glass, and the otter
listens to her handful of syllables. I want her
to be asking the otter, “who brought your
face back to life, how do you look forever
up at lights like that?” But she can’t say “er”
or any sound with “r,” and she doesn’t wonder
what I like to think she wonders. The otter
and she understand each other,
they both look up as I say their names, their
mouths opening, right on the verge of words.