…Erm, What Is His Name Again?
Leila Chatti
Not even your goddamned grandfather can remember
your name. I hate it
that we both own that specific brand of suffering, fucked-up
families—I mean what kind of broken
mother sends her child wilderness-bound with a backpack
a pet, and a pat on the ass? God, mom,
I’m eleven. What I know about battles is keeping
a berry tree alive past its first sprout.
What I know of patience is walking the long way
around the tall grasses. My only risks, ledges.
All I’ve ever known of desire is possession. When he asks me
to name my enemy, it’s always after
someone I used to love. What’s the difference?
Something small and painful, I’m sure, unimportant
when it all comes down to it—a splinter, a pebble in my shoe.
Choose! I always make these decisions for you.
Destiny sits round in my palm. Yours is whatever foils me—lick of fire
to my tranquil green, sea lapped against
my single spark. I want to be the very best—and the best is only
better than you. My whole
life alongside yours, your steps the trail to every town, your shadow
the dark of every cave.
I know, in the end, it comes down to this—you and I together.
On the road to victory, your body
locked there, looking out. In the final battle,
your name tumbling from my mouth.