What’s my name again?


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
a chant

There are times
when I hear
my name
like a bullhorn.
The Jesus freak
on Yonge and Dundas
with pamphlets
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.
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
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?

Do you think you’re the only one?

True or false?

True or false?

The only one
Nokyoung Xayasane

When you asked me
to meet you in the library,
I went.

When you asked me
to go on my knees,
I did.

When you asked me
to bend over,
I did.

I may have met you at the library.
I may have gone on my knees.
I may have bent over.

But it’s you
who’s searching
through the stacks,
it’s you
who’s on his knees,
it’s you
who’s bent over.
Is it not?

You think you have it?
Do you think that?

I imagine you
reading this now
with an expression
of quiet amusement,
always lust.

Do you think
you’re the only one
reading this
thinking these thoughts,
thinking these words
are about him?

Do you think
you are
the only one,
my only one?

Do you think that?

Okay, see you
at the library.

I’ll look for the one
on his knees,
my only one.

(25 March 2016)