Remember the Name

They call me Frank. Or Silvia.
Or Huwawa, some demon from Gilgamesh,
sneaking in like a cosmic cameo.
Sometimes my name lodges in throats,
like choking on a meat pie. 

Forty-three days deep
into this existential standoff,
I wonder: am I an echo,
a yawn the universe makes
when it forgets I exist? 

Names are tricky spells,
noises we glue to flesh,
hoping they matter, hoping they stick.
But does a dolphin care
if we call it Wendy?
It’s busy flipping tails in the deep,
unburdened by existential dread. 

Still, I ache for the hum of recognition,
a name that sings, “Yes, this is you.”
Not Frank. Not Woof.
Just... me.
Maybe whispered by someone
whose eyes see more
than letters on a hospital chart. 

I shout, “Call me right!”
and meet blank stares,
as if I’ve declared war on vowels.
But it’s not rocket science, mate.
Say it like the universe sneezes stars,
like each star remembers me. 

In the end, is a name
a noise, a truth,
or the punchline to a joke
the cosmos forgot to share? 

All I know is,
I need that anchor,
a fleeting promise
that in your voice,
for a moment,
I am not just a name,
but everything I’m meant to be.

FSF