My name
Nokyoung Xayasane

There are times
when people
say my name
like spit
hitting the pavement.

My name,
it punctuates
the ends of sentences.
Comma, full stop.

My name
is a repetition,
drum beats
hitting,
a chant
calling.

There are times
when I hear
my name
like a bullhorn.
The Jesus freak
on Yonge and Dundas
with pamphlets
shouting
from his soapbox.
The homeless woman
at Yonge and Bloor station
who pleads for help
but really
wants money.

No, my name
it is no weapon.
Sure,
shorten it.
Use it
at your will.
Whatever makes
you comfortable.

Say it
if you wish
if you so desire.
Repeat it
over and over
again and again.
Hold it
sweetly
in between
your tongue and canine.

Cherish that name,
my friend.
Cherish the sound
it makes
hitting the open air.

Okay, good talk.
I’m sorry,
what’s my name again?