My Name
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I wrote my name for the first time at a desk
that was too large, on paper that was clean—
the letters large and labored and imperfect,
the most important thing I'd ever seen.
My name: a thing I had not written before,
a thing that had been mine and now was made,
inscribed by my own hand into the paper,
permanent and personal and paid.
Every word I have written since that morning
traces back to that first labored name—
the world of language opened in that classroom
and nothing about the world was ever quite the same.
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I wrote my name for the first time at a desk
that was too large, on paper that was clean—
the letters large and labored and imperfect,
the most important thing I'd ever seen.
My name: a thing I had not written before,
a thing that had been mine and now was made,
inscribed by my own hand into the paper,
permanent and personal and paid.
Every word I have written since that morning
traces back to that first labored name—
the world of language opened in that classroom
and nothing about the world was ever quite the same.
