A name is simply a thing to be called. It doesn’t define you. Doesn’t own you. Doesn’t always fit. If you want, you can hide behind it. Be just a name, a name with no face. Be a mask, a separator of lives. One name for a close relationship, another for those that are distant. Barely associates. A name can change over time. It isn’t a static thing, once decided, there forever. It is fluid, changing as often, or little, as you like.
The ink spills onto the page and becomes a river.
Tributaries branch out across several notepads,
soaking through outlines and spider diagrams,
manuscript versions one, two, three, four
final. Final Final. Final Final point one…
The river becomes so large it leaks into the ocean,
where a single bound volume
floats to the top, raising its head
like a whale, defined on page 1894.
Is a name really a sound of yourself?
Is it a sound to swap around, change everyday
like putting on a clean top?
Can a stranger see you through your name?
Or only see your name,
bold, italic, underlined. A title.
A head and shoulders of letters, signatures,
a stamp of approval,
a certificate of achievement.
And what of money?
Is your name built of it?
Do people claw and maul,
trying to steal just a little piece?
Or is your name part of your skin,
a map of your life.
You. Truly, simply, you?