two o’clock in the morning.
your tired voice is reaching for mine
through the telephone wire.
and this is all i know
you needing me
but something about my name
tumbling hurriedly off your tongue
has never sounded so foreign.
it is as though
you have forgotten the weight
each letter in my name carries, how
could you deny me of my narrative.
i am who i was yesterday and who i plan to be tomorrow
but perhaps you never knew that.
perhaps the layers and stories and brokenness
in my first name
never spoke to you.
i suppose that is how it has been
from the very first desperate phone call
and eager greeting
and loaded moan.
how you exhaled my vowels so elegantly,
and dizzied me with desire.
but it is only now
that i am slowly realizing
in you mispronouncing my name.
do not call here again,
i will not answer
to a name that is not the one
my mother and father fitted on my head
like a crown of unmistakable gold
and eternal relevance.
— s a r a