Born into your name you make space in it—
Constance is anything but, Peter's rock is too small
to build anything on. Affection's affixed
to each of us like a tag in a game at recess,
you're it, you're it, you're—. Pins stuck in a map—
red in Deersfield, yellow in Anchorage—show
the few spots you've touched, all the country
you've yet to drive. One Anna was never loved
and another couldn't get away fast enough
and the cars that kept crashing behind her
were the days of every week. Named after
yr parent's favorite murder ballad, named after
some dimly recalled legend. It's an armchair,
stitching ripped and stuffing about to spill.
It's yr heart. The world makes a Moses of you
everytime you drift away, the water
slowly making its way past you. And the voices
coming to find you, save you again. And love
is never enough, the voices say as they near,
is never enough. You're named Yes, named
Tomorrow night's mystery. And love
is never enough, the voices say as they leave.
When the phone rings, you learn to never say hello,
learn to turn the lights off, whisper who are you calling for.

Weston Cutter is from Minnesota and has had work recently in Santa Clara Review and Hawai'i Pacific Review. (wlcutter@vt.edu)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761