Nom

How easy it is to write your name;
How easy to make your language my own;
How easily the curves come to my hands,
When I trace the words on your body
As if your skin was paper
And I was writing a letter to…

What is my name?
Do you remember?
I must’ve given it to you to keep safe –
That day, when I stripped off
All the masks of dignity and propriety,
And stood before you,
Shrunk,
Me.

Let me hear the shape of my name in your mouth.
Find it tangled in the lines of your hand;
Touch it in your voice;
Tell me my name,
For I have forgotten.

This entry was published on March 29, 2015 at 12:28. It’s filed under Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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