Signature
My signature
as often signatures
as often signatures
used to be
my name
There is nothing left of it now but an A
a scribble
And a line underneath – all
that’s left of my surname
A mountain, a ridge line
towering above a cloud
And from this horizon, at age 40
I look at the little boy
Who once learnt to
write his own name –
under my feet just to find out
whether or not my shadow
would be wounded too
severed from my flesh
carry on
without me?
as the price to pay
for being my shadow?
legs and arms
and you don't bleed
They throw you
in the water
to teach you
to swim
and you don't swim
of course
you drown
so they empty
the pool
and when there is almost
no water left
finally you
bleed
salt, froth, and water
I stole the backwash from them
and sewed it to my pulse
and sewed it to my breath
from the seas and oceans
out of sight out of mind
and time stopped
and the moon was on the threshold
like a mother
watching her children leave
to turn it into the allegory
of repeated failure
and fall
and the backwash spoke to me
and said
turn your so-called failures into
a poem
if that can help you
to accept and love them
write this poem and name it after me
and now would you please
return me
to the vastness of the seas
(Photo by Margo Berdeshevsky)