June, Not Me

My mother found a folded list,

her old handwriting, softly kissed

by time. 'We almost called you June,'

she said, beneath the afternoon

light in the room.

And June felt round, and smelled of bloom,

like something soft, a summer dress.

I tried it on, this gentleness

of sound. It fit so strange, so new,

a person I was almost, too.

But no, not me. That was a path

not taken, spared from future wrath

or joy. Just June. A quiet tune.