A Denotation by Anthea Yang
A Denotation
how many times have I held
your name in my mouth like a prayer
tucked this name into my seven year old body
already rejecting herself already wanting to
take it back to its makers and exchange it
for something—I dreamt
I was snow—white and reflective and made of light
I swallowed the names this country gave me
even said them back to myself
in the mirror just to see if it carried
the same weight—if a bruise is still
a bruise if there is no opponent
I didn’t spit it out until years later
when it was almost too late
when it was almost a whole
person inside my person
my neighbour born in the same province as
my mother meets me outside with her daughter
she is the only one in this city who calls
me the name my parents gave me when I came
screaming into a country that wanted me silent
she asks if I can give her daughter a name
one that will roll smoothly off this country’s tongue
she has heard the way this country has a habit
of turning a mouth with an accent into a haunted
house into an invasion into a glass bottle over the head
how many times have I stuttered
holding my own name in my mouth like a prayer
tucked this name into this body and watched it
become a conch shell held close enough
to hear my ancestors
breathing.
Executive Produces
Daniel Henson
Sue White
