given to us by our craft

My craft has a name for me.
Its holy ink
painting the first stroke on the cave wall
now. At this very moment
it is lifting the curtain and watching me sleep.
It is stirring egg and ash
over a flame.

My craft has a song for me.
It tunes the string
from seedpod and peeper
opening in this same instant
from a single wet stem.

My craft has flesh for me.
It offers up the choice
to wear it or burn it.
To eat it or let it rot

My craft has a root for me.
It snakes the unmarked grave
disturbs the hush,
turning up a heart caught short
between beats,
waiting in its bed of loam
all this time
for this very moment.

My craft has a key for me.
It fits no lock.
It belongs to music
and shorelines
and the unmaking of maps
charted for a land I have yet to reach
or have already left behind.

My craft has a name for me.
It is hers.
I take it as mine before the gods
and all the dearly beloved
gathered here.

My craft has a name.
It is mine
She takes it as hers before the gods
have their chance
to lay claim.

My craft has a name for me
she washes upon my coast,
its pattern a scuttling choreography
of claw and foam
whispering consummation
as dawn
lifts the curtain
and watches me unfold.

I hear the name my craft has for me
only when I stop calling roll,
when no one is left to say “here”
when the only name left
is what breathes against the seam
ready to split
awake
the moment
I do.

I wrote this poem in response to “Each of Us Has a Name” by Zelda, from which I have drawn the title. The original in Hebrew, 1985.

Image: Dead Sea, Israel. Photo by Sergey Mazhuga on Unsplash