Name Game

When I was in the kindergarten,
my teacher asked me who I was.
I said, "I don't know."
Hannah.
This memory is fresh and bold in my mind the
way
that the first snowfall stands out
on the trees;
the way the chickadee cries
at dawn; the
way that the stars graze my golden cheeks
in the sunlight.
The flower that blooms in
the pit of my despair
blooms upon my countenance,
a clever masquerade
who I am.
who I am
Who am I.

Nothing seems so pure or quick than
the soft ticking of a wrist watch
as gentle drops of
moonlight weave her fingers
through my hair, spring
my curls,
my friend.
Nothing seems so true and real
than the
songs and hollers,
whoops and cries of the
crickets in the night as they
weave their melodies of kryptonite and bonfire.
Music runs through my mind as I listen to their voices,
every cell.
every note.

The hum of the universe mingles with
my thoughts,
an interrupted and violent whirlpool of
memories and facts,
could-haves and would-haves,
long division and multiplication,
(insignificant)
makes me placid
HUM there, on
and on.

They never hear the crickets.
They never see the drops of moonlight fall on black pavement.
They never feel a hum deep in their bones.
What I would do to lend you my glasses,
my ears,
my soul,
lending isn't feeling or experiencing
listening is only hearing when
you don't hear your own heartbeat
connected by an invisible string
to everything.

And so she asked,
"Who are you."
I don't know. She
never gave me a chance to
paint my canvas in more than
black and white; of
crickets and music notes, and
moonlight that
irrevocably
unchangeably,
what lies in you lies in me
what lies in me lies in you
But don't change any names just yet.