I dreamed I changed my name because the other one ran out, but I don’t know my new name

 

When I was young I had many names; one razor-edged
given by my mother, one blunt-rounded given by friends,

one found by accident, smooth curved kept tight in my fist
known only to god. Now, it’s as if I have no tongue,

I’ve forgotten the mechanics of sound, sharpen knives,
one by one, taste the wet sky; learn to live in silence.

Maybe you get over being dead inside, maybe it’s a curse
a joke gone sour, one long hangover before you sober up.

I’ve lived despite premonitions and omens; I’m in love
with the hollow of your neck, hear a vibration of touch.

We were born, named for heroes, warriors, supernovas
ready to create new worlds. I’m unknown, unknowable,

a cipher dragged from mud, a wasp nest, tattered, bruised
by winter wind; my father’s father’s son.

I put on the shirt you mended, finger each button,
wait for your ghost-voice to name me.