My Name
Alexis Anderson
In the names of thieves, my name is not my own. It is constantly being bartered
with fool’s gold.
I have turned over everything I am to the healing of others, pocketing their scars;
I have taken their pain and gave them tranquility.
I am dust on shelves; I am clouds in sky.
I am unreachable ambition; I am unattainable goals.
I have taught that you may touch without bulldozing, that my skin is hand wash only, never thrown in with others.
I am January baby; I am international enthusiast.
I am the color gray; I am the daydream nighttime.
I am flying seed; I am planted beginnings.
Who am I?
The more important questions are, “Who was I? Who do I long to be?”
I was hurricanes in spring. I want to be falling leaves in autumn.
I survived for all. I want to live for me.
I want to let all of who I want to be flow from me like flowers in the Mediterranean sea.
I want to let myself go like honey seeping from the honeycomb.
I wonder how it would be to sit down with myself and talk,
talk about the truth, why many people don’t know it, why I can’t tellthem,
talk about the trying times, the loneliest times, the most euphoric times.
Who am I?
I am black woman with black views.
I am red rose and white lilies.
I am culture embodied.
Who am I?
I am everything.
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