Ginny Threefoot

When my ancestors began the work of me, 
I was already old. I was only a child, 
I swam as an eel, I tallied on fingers, 
measuring everything. I learned everything, 
forgot everything, made nothing matter. 
Consequences gathered over my several springs, 
over and over, winter bit into the possibilities. 
My ancestors took a great bite of me, but on I swam, 
floating, a wiring of bones, reaching out to salvage. 
I was a little boat. I rowed the bright river. 
I ran aground, I walked ashore, I stood upright, 
I rushed into the mysteries of childhood. Who dreamed me? 
My ancestors wander just behind me. They harp: 
What’s your name? Who calls you? 
No one calls me by the name I chose. The name I can’t remember. 
It’s the body that remembers, but the body never speaks. 
Tell us your name, plead my ancestors. We cannot live without you. 
My name? My name? I still don’t know. 
To call myself this given name would be the same as lying.
from the journal UNDER A WARM GREEN LINDEN
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