The mountains perceive me
as one of their own long lost kin.
I know this because when I reach the summit,
they welcome me with breathless vistas.
A small corner of my raging soul finds
slivers of peace embedded in archaic ice
and in the reflections of distant lakes.
And sometimes, if I am lucky, I take back
a small part of my lost self as I descend
into the dailiness of the mundane world.
The mountains do not have a name for me
because to name me would be to separate itself
from itself, because we are all part of this earth.
My baby name I kept secret for years,
even decades. It still yanks me back in time
whenever I hear it and I don't know what age I am.
It was my private family name, Irish for baby,
once called out in affection, not in anger.
Not my school name. My friends
have taken the shortest possible route
to my public persona, calling me Mo,
as if the Three Stooges, black sheep,
and other permutations of my nickname mattered.
My true name is something hidden,
something I search for amid the scree,
and the detritus and ruins of civilization.
Look, there it is, a small water-worn stone
buffeted about in a desert windstorm,
sand whittling me down in case a small ember,
a jewel, or perhaps, stardust, was trapped inside.
The morning calls me slowly
as if to waken me from dreams
while the night thinks only of itself,
its wants and its needs.
The past calls out to me,
a constant companion to what was lost.
The future is silent, perhaps
it's passive-aggressive,
with cake crumbs on its lips.
What's in a name?
I know I've answered this question before
and I will answer it again and again.
It hounds me, this attempt at definition of self
especially during this time of mass extinction.
Exodus, inspiration, we are breathing together
right down to the very last stargasp.
1/5/22
Terri Glass’ Write On ~ a Generative Poetry Gathering
Terri Glass’ Write On ~ a Generative Poetry Gathering
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