By Richelle Lee Slota
Nailed to the name my dead family demanded,
dead name that never conformed to me, ever,
forced to wait, finally bust out of childhood,
leaving strange knowings my soul was quite phony,
given a wrong name, a wrong face that covered,
hid all the truth, what I was from first moments,
suffered what’s always quite dead as if living,
living not knowing or minding I’m deadened.
Chose my own fierce name, my passionate selfhood,
ditched the last falsehoods, the gender of childhood,
kept all the love and the wisdom I’d come by,
carried on backs of all hopes for all goodness,
wholly the fierce name of vibrant adulthood.
Love, Richelle
Richelle Lee Slota (formerly known as Richard) writes poetry, novels, and plays. Her poetry chapbook is Famous Michael, her novel, Stray Son. Her poems have appeared in Caveat Lector, Quercus, Rogue Agent, Pratik, One Act, Blue Buildings, engine(idling, Yellow Mama, and Yellow Silk. She lives in San Francisco. She is a mentor to women learning meter in Annie Finch’s online community, Meter Magic Spiral.
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