Nom de Plume

I wonder about
the will of names
& how they find us—

searching out
interstellar souls

raised like dust
against the atmosphere

& then our mothers.

If you become
what you're called—

come to a small set
of letters & sounds—

can you say you're not just
a dictation of people
around you?

Halfway around the world
there is someone
with closed eyes—

the sun whispering pillow talk
for them to open—

& here you sit next to
the sure-firing gun of night,

the thread of a title
taut on both your fingers
& no other ties.

They've called you
the wrong pseudonym
for twenty-two years—

tightening around
your vocal chords
until the only noise
you hear or speak is

a name not yours.