He had a name.

He has an eponym.

It is still deeply rooted

in the center of my heart.

And though I try

not to utter his name,

play with the two syllables,

my heart echoes it

from some mystical place

I can never reach.


He has a name.

It is a noun

and every so often

it carries an adjective,

attaching a memory

to the few small letters.

Sometimes they are loving words,

others not so sweet….


If every man I’ve loved

clung so tightly

I would have drowned

in an ocean of

descriptive despair

full of letters and sounds.


But he had a name.

He has a beautiful pseudonym.

I can’t seem to release it

to the vastness of the universe

because it returns,

boomeranged with force,

periodically into my words,

smiling in its relief.


His name is implanted,

crisscrossed into mine,

for what seems a forever

and ever of a lifetime.

In a Name

Tell me your real name,

you staring back

through the windows of my soul.

Mother was heavily sedated

when she labeled you,

but here we are

living up to the antiquities

of a foreign noun

collecting adjectives

every day

from those who meet us,

know us,

and sometimes never like us.

What do you want to be called

in avoidance of the perception

a parent insanely applied …

for who is Mildred America?

She won’t live up to those nouns


than sweet names

that linger inside the tongue,

sliding off to make pretty sounds

with simple syllables.

Mildred America…

what was she thinking,

or did she not think at all?

How does one live to the reverence

of such hard sounds

that hide within initials of truth.

When I place my Millie A.

no one imagines a continent sits

within the first and last name

waiting to be explored.

So tell me,

you there, in the mirror,

what would you like to be called today

besides “Lovable,”



or “Friend?”