Katie

If I am
my name,
I am.

I am hung from the loose threads of
Hecate
knotted in the filaments of her
linguistic filiation
I am
tied
to the syllables
an alternate history to hers in
the ragged web of string
theory
I again, at another
point in space and time
like I’ve fallen
and gotten up, or fallen and
not gotten up
but let the ground level of time
sink its teeth into my (sur)face
half-hatched
from this escape, I
shout into a different shell
and let the sound of me
ricochet
off the sound of what
I have been
and
tongue sharpened
on the edge of this alteration, I slice
the syllables
like crossroads
only just a three-faced
parallel,
I can’t tell
which torches will fail, which
spheres will collapse
on the threshold
of what
I am
doomed to rooted liminality
(waiting for someone to move me)
without Hecate’s creature or Hecate’s keys
left to repeat
like a chthonic incantation
the name
I am.