I’ve always wanted to be full of meaning.
Like a woman named Marisol
—mar y sol—or a man whose parents passed
down the name Paniagua—pan y agua.
I went to Paris to find it. An archaeologist said:
Achanzar, a small home, a mountain range
in northern Spain; Achanzar from the Basque,
like a cottage, a chalet. Of my first name,
the amount of beauty required to launch a ship.
Miscellaneous flattery. Enough to break
a baguette in two. So I looked it up: a moon.
The lumpy kind. Helene in high-res.
My parents couldn’t have known, naming
a baby in Vancouver, what spun in the cosmos.
But they rushed to a hospital on a winter’s night
beneath the light of a moon with no name.