Owlhana
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Name PoemOne of the most common names I’ve ever heard
is my own, a kind
that neither trips up the instructor during roll call
nor sparks much interest at a dining hall.
A name like “Andrew” is clear,
transparent, and plastic.
The kind of name that lets me sift
like a memory into the background.
I have used it all my life,
like a kind of cardboard box
lifting myself out of it
and watching the packing peanuts drift
and settle around my limbs
like newborn snow,
candy floss,
and the long plastic straw
that curled around itself
like time
or Eliot’s yellow fog.
And there was a kind of distance between
“Andrew” and “Liu”.
“Andrew” which is supposed to be
a matching set to my sister’s “Annie”.
We were given names that matched, alliteratively
as if my parents were two workers at a factory
and they had just attached our doll-like limbs
to our rubber torsos, now pending
for a pair of the perfect
sounds by which they will call us
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