call Me My Name

Bodies can render personal identities visible   

                   -Kirkland

"...you probably want to put it the other way so other people can read it," he says.

i think for a moment.            nope. i stand on the black and white checkered floor of the Ace of Spades Tattoo shop amid my certainties and uncertainties. My right arm outstretched and open. it's ready for the momentary rush of needles set to inscribe the name I've scribbled on a blank piece of paper- a name I've always known. always called myself. 

And as I stand in this strange room, I'm pulled back to memories.  

                        station wagon rides through Rancocas on the way to elementary school. 

 hearing my mom impart disconnected pieces of a life I can only access through the voices of others. she answers my period punctuated questions- she in the front, me in the back. 

                     "did i have a twin." 

                       no. 

                    "Did i have a brother. sisters."

                      if you did, she says, we would have adopted them too.

The questions trail as I begin to fill on the information. Even as a little girl I learn to take these pieces in moderation, mindful of how it leaves me breathless, often too contemplative.

"your name was Rosa." she adds without a question to prompt. "Rosa" hangs in the air... It doesn't quite roll off tongues in any pretty-type fashion. rather it flops off. belly flops into my little girl mind. I can remember sitting in the back of the station wagon, silently shifting and sifting this word in my head, trying to mark it as my own.  imagining this other life, this world connected to this name. Feeling like Harold with his purple crayon, I sketch narratives to tuck away for myself - to lock up in the safe spaces of little girl imaginations. only ready to come out and play when heads hit pillows before bedtime.

I pay my 100 dollars, tip included, and indulge in my fresh ink. Rosa. in my cursory script. my story, rendered visible. 

horizontal across the inside of the forearm. facing me, for me. and she's all mine. 

already feeling closer to my own skin, I'm 

loving this literature ink. 

I'm ready to see the discourses it engenders for myself and for others. 

i'm feeling greedy and good.