Interpellation
By sam sax
give me a name & i’ll answer
whenever a mother calls it out across the park
wanting only her child & not some tired queen
sitting alone on a bench with a bottle
in a brown paper bag. but still i stand
when hailed & say excuse me ma’am, did you call?
& if not, what shall i do now i’m here?
names i’ve taken inside me like mouths
full of stale bread. sip of water names
on airplanes over water. biblical names like a bridle.
slurs like a bride.
names i’ve bled out into clean bathrooms.
names i’ve assumed & ones others assumed
were mine. he calls me baby & i am
preverbal & unvaccinated. boy,
& i was. daddy & i split in half
like a common fish. pig & i slit my own throat.
in the throws a name can be a chicken bone
or burning piano in the throat
calling down something larger
into the bed or car or bathroom or
say my name & they all join us here,
all the sams before me & all the sams
to come. say bitch
& my mouth floods with painted dogs.
every christ, christian, jonathan.
every lover, in one body. who i mean
when i say you. you made of letters.
you sobbing behind the wheel
of your sobbing car. you showing up
unannounced at my door.
when i say you up at four in the morning.
when i say of youth i was never young.
if ever i texted too late begging
for something ugly, forgive me.
i meant only to address the eternal
beloved, who i thought was, for a moment,
haunting your phone. i who have been
addressed & became. have lain
with men who never bothered
with names & still, when it comes
time for it they always find
something to say.
