Moniker

 

I wasn’t named for fire or
even smoke
though the idea likes to cuddle up with me.

The name I do have fails so hard
at defining me, it never has a
moment of clarity,
sounds like virginity
passed down to me.  

By the time
I find a way to be
still, I’ll have to move again. So, I  
can't change it, only
turn it gently.

Dreams where I don’t know my name, but
you can call me “baby”
never end well.

I thought it was a good thing
he seldom said my name.
Only when he was about to
lose it. Then I was the names
of other women, my identity
tossed in a junk drawer
along with everyone else, because
we’re all the same
argument. We’re all that way.

I would shake the bag of Scrabble
letters, hoping I could make a new name
that sounded like someone
he would
never disrespect. Something that
meant “be kind to this woman or she’ll have
to tear your heart out”

I need a name like Charlie or Ruth.
I could be a Greta
or Frankie,
thrown into a fray and survive better, or
maybe I’d stay away better.

But I’ve grown into it, despite it, ended
up with it, when orphans
might have lost it
That has to count
for something, I guess.