Maiden Names

Oh mother, when I stand above the water,

On my white face I see your printed cheek.

I smell the betel shell of every daughter,

The currency of newness, rare as teak,

I see the teeth your mother used to crack you,

Whose mouth made holds that bellied you and blacked you,

Whose words were traders' tins to weigh you weak.

Why is my mother's maiden name forgotten?

Who tore your scrivened name to pieces, mother?

When did you take your fingers from the typewriter

and knot them in your lap to bloat and blubber,

to wend and bludgeon fatly through the water,

as, on the mudded bank, your only daughter

burning for an image, gasps and smothers?

The woman part of me was never named

Nor was the woman part of you. We are

Dumb sons without a provenance to claim,

Meek, muted by the keeper's clink and screw.

We cannot write in ink, we cannot mark

The places we have stood, submerged in dark.

How can I know my name, my nameless mother?

How can I be but some bright mirror's shadow?

A hold made sole for likeness, loyalty,

Blind darkness, corded to the absent shoulder

Of any captain, shunted sea to sea,

though rough, the waters hide my own clean cheek?

Daughter, will I brand you so I can speak?

Will rough reels buy my passage, weigh you weak?