My father calls me Rox.
It is not my name.
It is short for Roxanne,
which is also not my name.
Neither of us has ever spoken
about how it began, or
why he chose it, or
how it is that it stuck.
Nor has he ever asked me
if I like it.
I do.
I like how it sounds.
Rox.
Like something strong.
Something solid.
Something potent and powerful.
Rox would not say yes
when she means no.
Rox would just laugh
if someone told her
she were pushing more weight
up the hill.
Rox would not wonder
if she has a voice worth hearing.
Not like Rosemerry, that flowery
one concerned with everyone’s
happiness,
she is still learning
the art of being
a Rox.
