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I wish I had a name like yours.
A different one. Mine is so plain.
But what are names? Names belong to whores.
(Or cunning men, sodden with secret desire.)
Rosalinda, come here and help me build this fire.
The wider industries are letting us down again.
I’m joking. These lamps have been lit since 1710.
New England has been lucky, isolated on this far reach of rock
upon which cold storms ride.
Don’t take this for granted, Rosalinda, that we are warm inside.
Rosalinda, I loved her!
But then blame came to blame.
And her name? It began with a breath, then a letter of mine—
then ended with a coo and a kiss and a sigh.
A name can be those things and yet just a name.
Rosalinda! Goodbye, goodbye.
