My name,
a gift to me from my father on my birthday,
a battle cry for his
sugary, spicy, victorious dark haired beauty.
Slick Colorado ice changed my name to FIRST SCAR.
Daddy held the gash closed
so they could stich me a permanent mark across my forehead.
In kindergarten, my name became a GHOST
when I learned to hide.
I placed secret names on invisible love notes
safety-pinned to the valentine inside my chest.
This hurt.
I grew up and fell in love with the little pistons of a bright yellow Spitfire.
It changed my name to WIND and ROAD
and the RAGE OF MY STEREO.
David changed my name to US,
then to FOREVER,
then to the blue sound of black PAIN.
When he changed my name to BITCH,
I had trouble answering.
I secretly called myself FORGIVOR.
When my children changed my name to MOM
I danced until I almost forgot that I’d ever had another name -
for years.
Divorce gave me back my father’s name,
but it was loneliness that changed my name to POET
and called me ARTIST.
Although I’d had many names,
Brian wouldn’t call me by any of them.
One fool even tried to rename me something girly he liked better.
This made me laugh.
My names have been spoken, bellowed, whispered, wept and written.
I like to be called LOVE.
I answer to SECOND CHANCES,
but what I name myself
is that gift from my father on my birthday.
I call myself
VICTORY.