What Horse?

 

I ask for my name back.

I have been told over and over

scolded, tongue-lashed

told my name is still the same 

that I have not changed

that I am still me.

 

I know 

I am not me and I don’t know 

my own name.

I beg for my name back.

 

I can divide my life into before and after 

into worse and better.

My best friend saying you sound good

saying you’re back in the saddle again, right?

What saddle?

What fucking horse?       No.

 

For the last two months my name has been victim

and his name was assailant.

His name is still assailant, no one stole it.

He has another name, no one stole it. 

He probably has many names

many faces, many arms

all reaching out, itching for destruction.

 

Today, I almost remember my name.

As I walk in the park, I see a glimmer of it 

around a bend 

or is that light reflecting off the pond’s surface?

I have walked this path

monthly, weekly, sometimes daily, 

season after season.

I loved this park.

I loved the pond with its turtles 

proudly posing on their rocks for a picture.

I loved the birders with binoculars

the wanderers

the dreamers.

Sometimes I walked with friends 

sometimes alone

one person among a group of strangers 

of breathing, sweating, smiling bodies.

 

I have returned. Carefully, 

I fit my feet into my original footprints,

which have survived from that day 

when I heard him behind me,

turned, he was inches from my face.

 

I quicken my pace,

it’s not safe to run so I walk as fast as I can

my heartbeat booms

it wasn’t light bending off the pond

or trees muttering in the wind

or a scrap of bark under a rock.

 

I find my name

pick it up 

swallow it.