Upon Learning that David Jones Changed his Name, I Remember a Night in May
When he tells me life should be gulped whole,
a sword swallower taking the blade, I take
his challenge, bring him close to woods through paths
that curve to my parents’ cabin, brush rocks
for keys, my hands slick with sweat, the wet smell
of mud reminding me of climbing trees
here, Mom lecturing me not to wander
too far, a plea. Always be where you can
see me, she would say. I told her tonight
that I was going out with some girlfriends
to see a new movie, ignored her gaze.
The boy fidgets, and I feel a sharp chill
as I clasp the cold, silver key, unlock
the door and lead him inside. I flick
a lamp on and catch my pale reflection
in the hallway mirror—my hair the shape
of clouds of smoke that smothers purple skies,
the gap between my teeth has yet
to close—and trace my warm cheeks, place my palms
on my frog-green eyes, then open and close
them, like moths’ wings flapping, a game I played
with Mom as a child where she laughed, acted
like I was invisible. I never lied
to Mom about my whereabouts before.
Even at seventeen, I never lied
about the people I ride with in cars,
windows down, stalks of necks out greeting the breeze,
and when he calls me from the living room,
I think about another time I lied,
how we met on my porch after he’d yelled
my name, and I claimed the touch of our wrists,
the graze of lips so chapped, a sweetly burst-
ing dried apricot, meant nothing—a lost note.
And lying stung then, stings now as he pulls
a David Bowie record, the rasping song
“Telling Lies” becoming a second skin.
Tonight, I wear an alias, recall
how Bowie painted his face, a glitter
of twelve identities, lighting the alien,
yet his true self hidden, not of this world.
Tonight, I learn how to swallow the knife,
the knife that Bowie slipped into his name,
and like the burnt taste of metal, transform
to a girl I don’t recognize. A girl
who hates apologizing, grinds teeth, finds
a soft dandelion and bites the head
away. A girl who follows the golden-haired boy along
the river, says yes to swimming naked,
spreads her arms in water—Ziggy Stardust
begging, give me your hands. I turn away
from him as he attempts to catch minnows—
as crickets fiddle ballads for future
mates, for offspring they will forget in days—
and hum out a song for my own mother:
If you can see me, I can see you.
