There is anger in a man:
he does not know his true name.
It is ours to grow into a world
where we are reminded what our name is not.
It is Eve’s to remind us - and she should.
There is an aching in the gut
(just beneath the heart)
that begs questions from the dirt used in our clay,
our composition: one of primal things
and primary.
We were made first
once -
no longer.
Now we are realized latest and last,
lost to that void of namelessness.
Every construct given is an empty nicknaming
attempt to fill the space
between who we are
and who we are supposed to be.
All the base
longings demonstrate how far
we are
from who we are supposed to be.
Every face
asks us for our name.
Do you know it yet?
I do not name you, son,
and if you're lucky
you'll know how no one can.
How slow creaks the door closing
in on your identity,
how near passes the comet -
don't you wish it would be meteor?
Barreling down on your home,
at least then you could watch it go up
in flames.
That is the thing about names:
we are obsessed with them,
we know nothing without them.
Can I know you
if I do not name you
child?
I must address you somehow.
I must confess
I do not know your name.
No one
here
does.