…Erm, What Is His Name Again?

Leila Chatti

November 3, 2014

Not even your goddamned grandfather can remember

your name. I hate it

that we both own that specific brand of suffering, fucked-up

families—I mean what kind of broken

mother sends her child wilderness-bound with a backpack

a pet, and a pat on the ass? God, mom,

I’m eleven. What I know about battles is keeping

a berry tree alive past its first sprout.

What I know of patience is walking the long way

around the tall grasses. My only risks, ledges.

All I’ve ever known of desire is possession. When he asks me

to name my enemy, it’s always after

someone I used to love. What’s the difference?

Something small and painful, I’m sure, unimportant

when it all comes down to it—a splinter, a pebble in my shoe.

Choose! I always make these decisions for you.

Destiny sits round in my palm. Yours is whatever foils me—lick of fire

to my tranquil green, sea lapped against

my single spark. I want to be the very best—and the best is only

better than you. My whole

life alongside yours, your steps the trail to every town, your shadow

the dark of every cave.

I know, in the end, it comes down to this—you and I together.

On the road to victory, your body

locked there, looking out. In the final battle,

your name tumbling from my mouth.