Shemot — Names
When I came along, my parents agreed on my name
but not on the spelling. I learned this eighteen years later
when the mighty state of New Jersey sent me my birth certificate.
It had two addenda – One removing the letter k
from the end of Rick, signed by one of them, and another
putting it back, signed by the other. (Dated the next day.)
You could see the divorce coming for miles
but I was too young to know what that word meant
(or any words, really.) So I didn’t think about it
for eighteen years. These days, I put my name
on everything and shoot it out into the world – Poems,
pictures of food, things I’ve stepped on and looked at.
I’m trying to make a name for the name I’ve been given.
You could argue mission accomplished, but
I live in a Land of Goshen where, these days,
stating your name could cause a problem
and I don’t want to go the way of Joseph.
Forgotten in the Diaspora by whoever ascends next.
It’s not about me, may be my mantra, but choosing life
all day long may mean it’s at least a little about me.
Thank you for reading about my adventures.
Whether you live in the next room, down the street,
across the world, or a hundred years from now.
I’ve stored all my grain for you. All these words
are for you.