Naming

I am told my name bloomed first
in the fingers of a concert pianist 
I've never heard play; then 
in a votive candle someone lit
to the madonna in blue. I cannot tell 
what promises were made in my name;
if my arrival guaranteed love or a life
of ease for the one who took me in 
her arms, or maids in a kitchen where
she could practice being a lady. 
Eventually, though we kick 
and scream in the padded holding cell 
of our names, we learn to live 
with them in a country 
where headstones in the graveyard 
bear the names of saints or prophets, 
prisoners, martyrs—or we grow
away and out of them.