Julia Alvarez (1950~)

Each morning I wrote my name

On the dusty cabinet, then crossed

The dining table in script, scrawled

In capitals on the backs of chairs,

Practicing signatures like scales

While mother followed, squirting

Linseed from a burping can

Into a crumpled-up flannel.

She erased my fingerprints

From the bookshelf and rocker,

Polished mirrors on the desk

Scribbled with my alphabets.

My name was swallowed in the towel

With which she jeweled the table tops.

The grain surfaced in the oak

And the pine grew luminous.

But I refused with every mark

To be like her, anonymous.