The Second Name

The lawyer points out where to sign,

so I write out the name in full.

A jagged and black-inked line

with a heavy and rhythmic pull.

It’s the name of a girl in a frame,

my mother’s own sister who died.

A tragic and delicate claim

that nobody mentions with pride.

It’s stamped in a Bible in gold,

a ghost that I carry in ink.

A story that’s never been told

whenever I stop here to think.

I’m wearing a stranger’s old skin,

a legacy bought with a breath.

A place for the grief to begin,

a middle-name tribute to death.