The Middle

The lady on the phone said 'Marie'

with a voice like a customer script.

It’s a name that was never for me

but for a woman whose life had slipped.

They said she died of a grief

that her ribs couldn't quite contain.

So they handed it down like a thief

to the middle of my name.

It sits on the yellowed page

in a loop of tired ink.

A ghost from a different age

stopping by for a drink.