I have several names.
My first was the name
my mother wielded,
but she later conceded
I had an earlier name,
a longer name
that my father gave me,
a name borrowed
from the long dead,
the name authorities
would know me by.
And later, you adorned me
with shorter, snappier names -
names loaded with love
names that could be sung
and in which I took comfort
and pride.
When as a student I arrived,
wheeling cases through customs,
I saw the linguistic gymnastics
reflected in their eyes
but I kept silent and smiled,
lest they felt they fell short
lest they sensed that I found fault
in their command
of each element of my name.
But the truth is I hold
my true names elsewhere,
in my place of song and friendships
far from these shores.
I have several names
and accumulate more each year
as I spare acquaintances
the shame of verbal stumbles.
I have several names,
but I know who I am
with you.
Many of my friends who have had the courage to migrate carry many names.
