Whose Name Is This

I signed the form and didn't recognize the name.

The pen was steady—too steady—like a game.

The S was careful, practiced, right,

like I'd learned to be an adult by night.

My father read his papers, didn't look.

He was reading from some textbook

about deductibles and medical cost,

about all the ways his body was lost.

I hovered before I committed to the line.

The pen just hung there. I could resign.

I could have made it messy, made it true,

could have written what I wanted to do.

But I made it perfect, official, a lie.

The signature of someone who'd get by.

Someone old enough to make it stick,

someone who'd learned the trick.

He took it and didn't say thanks or goodbye.

He just folded it with a sigh.

And I was already someone else—

someone who'd signed away herself.