Two little girls in southern California
made a language of their own.
Linguists put 'em in a playroom
And noted what they said.
They were cute girls, identical twins.
In their dream tongue
Each gave a name to the other.

What are they saying?
What do the scientists think?
Poto and Cabengo, the Mighty Two.

We are so unlike each other;
who are you, listening to me?
Are we talking? Well, what are we saying?
Our lovers touch hands, they talk, they kiss,
They say nothing:
Insisting on each other,
Becoming more afraid of each other.
We need a linguist to figure out what we mean.
I love you: what am I saying?
You love me: who are you?

Poto and Cabengo
With a language of their own...

Watching you not watching me.
Poto and Cabengo watch TV.

No birth upsets our equilibrium;
Our twin daughters are pure speculation.
No tragedy forces us together.
Our yearning for each other is a habit.
As we touch, the nerves withdraw from our hands—
But something passes close between us.
Our love becomes a puzzle of science:
A juicy, immaculate, laboratory mystery.

Xerox Poto, copy Cabengo.
What are they saying? What are they saying?
Tape every talk from two lovers for five years.
Send it the biggest midwestern labs for analysis.
What are they saying?
Linguistic experts cannot discover our love.
It is not hidden there. Nothing is hidden.
Throw open our love like giving up cigarettes,
Like a diet of love!
What am I saying?

Am Poto or am Cabengo?

Mike Enright, 1982