Posted in Uncategorized, tagged identity, poetry, short poem on November 21, 2013| 1 Comment »
slipping it off,
this silken garment I thought
was my skin
*
this, too, an act
of violence, opening
my hand
*
after the flood
not stopping to pick through
the debris
*
inside
this conversation
new moon
*
so giddy to lose
this negligee of shoulds I forget
to blush
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, identity, names, poem, poetry on October 4, 2013| 4 Comments »
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.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birthday, identity, poem, poetry on July 6, 2013| 1 Comment »
That’s what they do,
he said. They get your birthday
with your name and then
they steal your identity.
Thank god they did not
print my birthday in the paper,
he says, pointing to the long list
of birthdays in the bottom right
corner of the local newspaper. We
are sitting on the bench
in front of Mary’s Store.
There is no one named Mary
who works here anymore.
Now, he says, I don’t have
a PO box, don’t have a driver’s license,
I paid to have them take me
off the voter registration list,
twenty bucks, did you know that,
he says, and now I fell off the radar of the paper.
I want to wish him happy birthday,
but he is too busy telling me
he is no one and how the person
who steals his name will be the one
with a driver’s license and passport
and PO Box to prove it.
He’ll have it all with my name,
he says, his arms waving wildly,
the injustice of it all. He shouts,
They’ll deport me! Not the other guy!
Part of me envies him his disappearance.
Part of me still longs to wish him
a happy birthday once he pauses long enough
for me to speak.
And part of me is already escaping
into the dry air of July, perhaps
laughing at the one who thinks
her life is hers.