“Name” by Katelyn Dixon
Author: Katelyn Dixon
We ache for what we cannot name.
Who will remember us?
For as long as I can remember, I have held the secret
of my true name on the tip of my tongue, but have never
found the words nor known the language
to speak it outright.
So I wait. I wait to receive my true name,
whose hushed syllables I finger like pebbles in my pocket
each one the note to a forgotten lullaby.
Maybe, one day, I’ll sing it for you.
We ache for the name we cannot recall;
our hearts strain and break beneath the burden of lost memory.
We were born with a name that we swiftly forgot
the moment our lungs first filled with cries of protest
at being evicted from our home, the place our stories began.
We arrive with the departure of memory —
the truth we knew before shame unnamed us.
Our desire makes us desperate.
Our scars tell the story of our amnesia,
bearing the marks of souls enfleshed in bodies.
Listen. Your scars want to speak.
They long to bear witness to what you have learned in the dark,
to cradle the lament you’ve longed to bellow
since the tight fist of grief first grasped at your lungs.
The scars say, “Cry.
Bleed the sorrow dry
from its hidden veins,
which may yet contain gold.
Weep it now, your deluge of tears,
before the years tear soul from body,
limb from limb, heart from memory.”
What is your name?
Now, now is the time to listen for your name.
Let your ears strain against the fraught silence
as each petal of your heart unfolds with the fragrance
of you, truest you.
If you let them, even the angels
will join you in the aching, in the asking.
We ache for our forgotten name.
Who will remember us?
Featured in: The Lighter Weight of Being
The Lighter Weight of Being is the culminating multimedia and interactive event for the 2025 - 2026 Resilient Artist cohort.
