Name

 

“The minute you publish your own name you lose freedom.” -Ted Hughes.

 

What we find in a name

is the mystery of a person.

Five letters or ten,

syllables,

you play over and over

to a mantra or a tune of a song

you have never heard.

 

Is it the one you imagined?

 

I give my letters for free,

but you hide yours under

sand castles that break.

I should have changed it,

walked among the normal

and let the secrets lie in

alphabetical order.

 

I meant to

 

but my father died and

everything changed.

Legacy and names

became as relevant

as building inspectors

handing you notices

of an evaluation of a lifetime.

Write, read and produce words

like a factory produces t-shirts

that hold in the warmth

of your soul. Made in China.

Made in Canada. Erupted

recession in California dreamers

wanting to hug all those trees

of

recycled hearts.

 

Poets with fake names

and broken stems

flowered bookmarks

library cards

take your name

and stare at it a while.

Remember when you counted

the letters in your name

 

eight plus seven equals fifteen 

 

adding them up

and making up numbers?

Was that just me?

Memorizing claps.

Rewriting history

with lies.

Names reveal too much

and that alone is the essence

of writing.

 

 

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