Autograph

The mailman stands with his chin tucked in,

holding the clipboard like a heavy plate.

He knows the sender's name is a threat,

a legal font that tastes like tin.

I take the pen, a cheap plastic stick,

and try to conjure the version of me

who learned to loop the G and the y

in a classroom that smelled like brick.

The ballpoint skips on the yellowed slip,

leaving a series of desperate dashes.

It’s a costume I wear with my fingers,

a shaky grip on a sinking ship.

I hand it back, my name a jagged lie,

written by someone I used to imply.