Listen to this poem
Stephens with a “ph” by AutumnKonopka
This is not my name.
But its what I was given,
and I’ll hold you to it:
Stephens, with a “ph”
the illegitimate daughter
of two tiny words (step/hens)
combined to make a nonsense sound
that is altogether instinctual.
Don’t slice it through the belly with your unimaginative v.
I am more complicated than that,
and this is how I bleed:
in bird song,
in growing grass,
in sunburn,
in wet snow.
I perish in changing colors,
in lunar cycles,
in seasons,
in winter, spring, summer,
Autumn.
This is my name, and I’ll hold you to it.
The bastard child of a bass player and a bookkeeper,
I am trailer parks and Catholic school,
cheerleading and streets without sidewalks.
Open your eyes
and you can find me
in the yard not three miles from the landfill.
I am turning over in the earth,
with the beer cans and banana peels.
I am rising up in full bloom
with the dandelions everywhere.
