Brigid's Feast: Being Called Names

I've mentioned her before. . .  Brigid

 Celtic goddess, 

patron saint of poetry and healing,

of midwifery and forging things from fire,

predecessor of St. Brigit.  

In honor of her feast day today,

I'm offering this poem from

my as-yet-unpublished volume of poetry

called Calypso Red.

Thanks, Reya, for reminding me to join

this poetic tribute hosted by Anne Hill

at Blog 'o' Gnosis.

p.s. I'm sorry. . . no matter what I do,
I can't get this poem to display correctly.
Like me, it has a mind of its own.

Being Called Names

I've been called a lot of things.

It's a girl, said the doctor. My daughter,

my father announced to his friends.
Sweetheart, cooed my mother.
Teachers seemed to think my name was

stop talking to your neighbors.

My baby brother couldn't say his r's

so all of a sudden I was Mimi.

To some men, I've been sweetie,

love, darling, my bride, my wife,

the one who takes him back

no matter what. To others,

I've been a tease, that femi-nazi

or castrating bitch. I've been

mommy, teacher, poet, writer.

I've been called too trusting,

too serious, too smart for

her own good, too competitive,

a woman of a certain age,

Terry's wife, divorcee.

I've been called a lifesaver,

a living doll, y'all, honey

with a southern accent, 

a bad girl, wild woman, psychic,

miss, ma'am and even hey you.                                             

I've been called your honor,

counselor, attorney-at-law,

but not -- like my law

partner of days gone by --

that bitch-dyke-lawyer from hell,

though I think there's a certain

mystique in that moniker.

I've been called the other woman's

name -- just once, but that's enough. 

And it was not until I stood

before an ancient wall

in a temple on the Nile

and stared at glyphs

that spelled my name

in language from a time

beyond time

that I truly understood

I was Beloved.