I Do Not Remember My Own Name

By Valerie Wetlaufer

so whenever I hear a voice calling,
I turn my head.

Unmake the bed
open the window

When I returned from Paris
burning behind me

I selected a single letter
to tattoo upon my chest.

In the wind, my name sounds like a vowel.
Everyone keeps asking what the baby will call me.

I find myself worrying about my nipples,
how their textures will change.

It does not take long to recite the list of names
of those who stay in touch.

I’m losing language in my sleep.
I open my mouth, and words are plucked

from my tongue. Before I was broken,
I planned to inherit the garden.

A guitar, dice, the scent of pipe smoke.
We folded our legs beneath our dresses

and perched on the grass delicately.
Back in the days when we knew our own names.

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