Do you remember the first time you learned to write your name?
Scribbling and scrawling it over any surface
A means to say
I am

her
I exist here
in this container of letters.

And as you grew you began to find
dissatisfaction
with that container
you shortened it
lengthened it
and maybe even changed it altogether.
Then you ventured out
in search of more
things to be
other things
I am
poet
lover
dancer
mother
doctor
teacher
Mrs.
and then, ever deepening
I am
dangerous
angry
trustworthy
quiet
ashamed
sexy
volutile
too much
too little
unseen
That which you have named yourself
and allowed others to name you
suddenly becomes
too small
suffocating
You are evolving too quickly
You are transforming too intimately
and yet
dipping into the ink of the moment,
you spill from center
a language more
elemental
I am
this crescent moon
this misted leaf
this salted tear
this wanting caress
this shattered heart
You begin
‘My name is’
You become
a body
of work
a breath onto pages of a story never told
you surrender to the freedom of
identity
in
motion
I am
a woman
forever being written.