The Name That Wasn't Mine

We met in the kitchen this morning,

neither of us sure what to say,

the coffee maker dripping, warning

that we'd have to find our way.

They said my name—the old one—

the nickname from long ago,

the one I thought was done,

the one I'd tried to let go.

I didn't correct them,

just let the name sit in the heat,

didn't try to inspect them,

didn't make it neat.

The name belonged to someone old,

someone I used to be,

but standing there, still brave and bold,

I couldn't set it free.

I could have said: That's not my name,

could have drawn the line clear,

but I just let the moment claim

what I'd held dear.

The coffee finished dripping.

One of us reached for a cup.

And the name—still gripping—

filled me right up.