Filling the Egg Carton

Filling the Egg Carton

My real name is Lucinda.
Yesterday my name was speaks with no sound.
Tomorrow my name will be centrifuge,
head pinned in a mental halo. My mother
thinks my name is prodigal daughter;
my nephew, crazy california. In dreams
my name is whispers in gloaming.
And though he knows my name
is Lago Bianco, my lover never says it.
He wades deep in my waters,
cautious of the undertow.

                        I’d like to rename
every body part: fingers, apple-pickers;
back, Waipi'o Valley; heart, opal weed;
Stomach, I made you Lucinda’s urn,
filled you with shaved shale and apology
cards sent to no one. If today, I name you
that which remains and invite a child close
to wipe her cheeks across my soft center,
will I be the arbitrator of loneliness,
one day nearer what is unnamable?  

~ Published in Inkwell