I was named. Not a boy-child, not a song

cried out across the fields, the rising sea

swept out among the fishing boats to score

the littoral strand, making its too brief

pause. No celebration, no facsimile.

The ink drying fast. What is this thing, name,

the disappointment that follows the male

order? My given name. Surge of form and fire,

invoking the dying, the face of future

women who would seed the fields with their hands,

who would knead the joy into some small life

in darkness, in quiet places. No less:

the woman in me born will make it right.

–published in red paint hill, Winter 2016