Mom, not much long after Dad had made her his wife,
delivered herself of her swollen girth.
They called me “Lyla,” Chinese for “So, he’s arrived!” –
the first thing that came out of Dad’s mouth at my birth.
At table I was seated with the guests.
I sat at elbows, minding the rules of the game.
I always showed up decked out in my Sunday best,
not wishing to elude my father’s name.
Mom, by the way, had wanted to call me “Zola.”
No, not after the French guy. It means, “He’s leaving.”
They treated me as if I’d stolen the
silver – as if, when I left, there’d be no grieving.
And so I was destined to seem, well past thirty,
as if I were only staying for tea.
But note: “Lyla” can mean, “He’s coming! He’s seething!”
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