The Id Raft

Jon Riccio

Carving my name by way of wax
fruit, the stems closer to gray
now that I go by Neel.

Calligraphy, not identity.
The charade of flourish given
a replacement set of rules,

smudges in my voice
finagling a moneygram
or Fourth Avenue tea.

In the drill of becoming
you furl the bow,

  stave the glyph.

Neel, roll your wrist
till it etches the brew-pot’s scald,

for lack of an id
there’d be no raft
but the fruition of conceit,

the defect in your name
like graphite on mute.