‘I am the girl with no name,’ she cried out with a cheer.
Parades stood transfixed, ears willing to hear.
‘I am the girl with no name at all,’
She decreed with a bow and accompanying song.
All her life she
thought she knew what she was called.
A name like a flower which grew since before her,
twisted and twined around the body so small.
Talled as she talled, grew wide when her hips did too.
The name she thought,
still grew and breathed, always above her,
always sighted out-of-reach.
Watered and loved, no blemish to name,
soon preceded the distance which the girl
But then she met a boy with a beautiful name,
that tasted so pure, that tasted so good as her
lips grew the word stronger and lovelier each day –
And for a year more, he never used the girl’s name.
It all was a lie, the word she thought she knew.
There had never been a name, she was just only a ‘you’.
She accepted the bend of her flawed know-all,
perhaps, after all, she remembered,
it were weeds that grew too.
She accepted his knowledge as superior to her
own – for he told her things only a lovely named-boy
‘I am the girl with no name.’
They cheered and they twirled.
‘I had no name at all,
not one, three, or two.’