Namelessness by David Wevill
By now after all these years
I don’t know who the “you” is any more
when the word writes itself instead of a name
or an honest detail. I had forbidden myself
this vagueness, this evasiveness
which is like the shadow that follows this pen
across the page. I had said
honor her memory, or hers, or hers
or speak of the subtle dark one I am with
who asks, what am I to you, am I
nothing? I have fallen into this habit
of remembering what comes easy to to the heart.
You have no name. There is no smell in you
of skin or hair. Your body’s word is gone.