My father has never made an effort to memorize how my name is spelled by Elisabeth Blair

I gave up all, went into the wildlands.          

 

I was last seen on the peninsula.

 

I was caught in a storm, cast adrift.

 

I and my ships waited in a cave.                                

 

I became lost in the clouds.

 

I disappeared during a descent.

 

There is some evidence my disappearance was voluntary.    

 

I left hints.                             

 

I was depressed, walked out with just 30 dollars.                 

 

I bought a book.                     

 

I got on a train.          

 

I went down into a sewage canal.                 

 

I was presumed to have drowned, but I may have survived.            

 

Several women came forth saying they suspected they might be me.

 

I was found at last, abandoned, partially submerged, listing heavily.
 

They tested me and found incontrovertible proof:

                       

no one is related to me.

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Elisabeth Blair is a poet, interdisciplinary artist, and feminist podcaster. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Ovenbird and Right Hand Pointing, and is forthcoming in Feminist Studies, cream city review, and S/tick. Her chapbook, We He She/It, is available through Dancing Girl Press. See www.elisabethblair.net.