Names
I
keep names in my back pocket.
I
will not need them for years, but like a
child
would collect buttons, I
collect
possibilities.
The
names are old fashioned, sweet
and
clean. They aren’t heard too often anymore
but
when they’re recited, I can’t help but smile.
They
roll off the tongue like marbles on ice,
and
when I say them I feel like I am home.
Charlotte.
Rose.
Eloise.
My
daughter,
When
they hear your name
I
want them to feel warm under
that
bone in the middle of their chest.
Your
first name will be for you.
To
twist and turn, to squeeze and expand.
Your
second, for teachers spell wrong.
You
will have to correct them.
You
will create your own story
and
explain it in your own words.
You
will spell it and say it over and over
again.
Your
last name will ground you.
Will
remind you of small villages
where
everyone knows each other.
Of
the mind tricks, subtle lies and all the steel-toed kicks
to
my shins it took for you to even have a name.
It
will tell the story of grandma’s forced inked forearm,
of
number games enemy soldiers played and
quick
dodging bullets,
of
running away on dirt roads on
bare
calloused feet, under barbed wires and
through
trees of unknown ends.
She
survived so you could live.
Women
in our family have metal pipes for bones,
So
dye your hair green
or
get a million and two piercings.
Let
your name give you the strength to
stand
out.
It
took me 6 years to figure out that I
should
not try to fit in with,
fake
acrylics and artificial comments
spilling
from the mouths of privileged freshman.
I
don’t know how, but something led me straight
to
those who take me for who I am.
So
know that I will be there for you.
There
are reasons I keep certain names in my back pocket
And
you, are one.
