Taxonomy
There is a way to say a name in the present
that changes the way you say that name in its future,
like the way my own name
and my mother’s name
became both blessing and curse
in the mouths of the men that spoke them.
When I first left my home
two years after divorcing my husband,
two years before my son’s graduation,
and three years before my daughter wrote the poems
that would break me,
I said my daughter’s name to the breeze,
then my son’s name while standing by a river
in New Hampshire feeling finally free, not feeling
the names like blessing or curse,
or anything so weighty. Only
their inscription in the earth of the journey that carried me,
as if I was sure they could hear me,
as if to declare: Mother is alive. Follow.
As if I didn’t know I was leaving.
As if I really thought they’d come running behind,
waving their arms with joy.
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Midwest Shreds: Skating Through America’s Heartland by Mandy Shunnarah - July 28, 2026
- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Midwest Shreds: Skating Through America’s Heartland by Mandy Shunnarah - July 27, 2026
- An Interview with Christian Yeo Xuan, Author of So Rain - July 25, 2026



