CALL ME BELOVED

Did I do a good job?
Putting my son to sleep,
Halloween costume crumpled in the hall –
am I making the right memories,
repeating the right cycles,
ditching the rest?

Am I doing a good job
copying you, dad –
I pick the skin around my fingers
bloody, too, like I learned from you
tearing yourself raw in church pews – now
everything I choose is to make damn sure
I’m nothing like you

Except I kept my name, perfectly androgynous
the way I know you’d hate so much, if you knew
to the point it makes me wonder
why you chose it, what it ever meant to you?

And who am I?
Scrubbing off lipstick put on unsteady
unsure, learning all this too late
and why pick a night when everyone thinks
“it’s just supposed to be a costume, anyway”
this isn’t you

I was a little kid once; I still am
somewhere. Am I doing a good job?
Am I making the right memories,
listening to the right voices?