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What Horse?


I ask for my name back.

I have been told over, over and over I have

been spoken to, scolded, tongue-lashed

berated by you, and by you and you --

yelling at me that my name is still the same 

telling me 

I have not changed

that I am still me

and still I ask you - I beg for my name back

I know I am not me

I know this, and 
I don’t know my own name.


I could divide my life into “before” and “after” 

but what would that serve?

What was I called?

Division into “before”, “after”

into worse, better,

good, better best --

my best friend saying - you sound good

my best friend saying - you’re back in the saddle again, right?

What saddle?

What fucking horse? No. No.

I ask for my name back

I loved my name

it suited me, 

it was mine and I knew it.

For these last two months my name was “victim”

and his name was “assailant”

his name is still “assailant”, no one stole it.


He has another name, 

he probably has many names

many faces, many arms

destroyer, destruction or

just one more disgusting human.

I know my name.

I want it back.


I can glimpse my name up ahead 

around a bend in this path

this path through the park--

this path that I walk

monthly, weekly, sometimes daily.

I love this park

I love this path

I love these trees.

I have always loved them.

I can feel my name around a bend in this path

this path that that I walk, that I tread, that I love

season after season,

year after year –

I spy my name.


I walk the path

sometimes alone

sometimes with companions

sometimes there are benevolent

unknowing strangers along for the ride,

I walk sometimes surrounded but

it doesn’t matter--

because today I see my name 

around that bend

near that tree, under that rock, in the cold.

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