The Last Of My Name – A Poem For My Future

This is the end of my name.

The Big M, which long ago altered the reality of my initials,

a new consonant to wrap my lips around, a spoken kiss.

Invisible little c, never physically present, yet

that ever present question, is it Mac, or Mc,

such a silly thing to argue, to hang a care upon,

the sort of thing that sets individuals and joins families and conveys pride,

need no longer cross my mind.

Giant G, oh capital of Gs, allowed, welcomed, to dominate my life,

and all that comes after.

A final graceful scrawl of letters, details which vanished over the forgiveness of time.

This is the end of my name.

Farmer, son of a farmer.

Seeds planted in warm brown earth, caretakers of the land.

Fairytales and sofa paintings.

The truth is frost heave exposing broken bits of crockery and beer bottles,

and gulleys with rusting washing machines and refrigerators,

and disused machinery like tigers among the weeds,

and rising devils in the dust.

Where once the land was green and thick with fragrant trees,

I have given it back, along with the ring, and my cares.

And the promises, like drinking glasses which can only crack and break from rough handling.

Added to the ruin of that which was once ancient, and fertile, and awe inspiring,

reduced to forgeries of affection.

The final time my hand will scrawl across this page

with this particular set of letters, in this exact fashion.

This is the end.


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