Rhiannon Remembers Her Own Name

by Ali Trotta

Artwork by Shokofeh Ghafari

One by one, the sweet secrets 
       became stones, 
and one by one, the stones
       became soup, 
fever-food, hollow 
and without bread— 
              this is what he gave me, 
 
the grief-god with worn hands, 
       practiced 
in shaping song 
              into secrets, 
 
and how I sang, 
       how the lullaby 
turned curse, turned dirge, 
turned wordless 
       and weightless, 
 
until love 
       curled like flame-kissed letter, 
the handwriting still familiar, 
but the words 
       unintelligible, 
a ghost scrawl, 
a backward spell— 
       everything burned 
 
to ash, but the candle 
       remained flameless 
       in the dark, 
 
and the darkness 
       softened into something 
familiar, so I stayed, 
built an altar 
       out of hunger, 
       out of hope, 
       out of softness, 
 
but it is foolish 
       to pray to a god 
who cannot abide his own reflection, 
       it is hubris 
       to thank the ravenous dark 
for its gift, 
       it is damnation 
to take gathered scraps 
       of love 
as if it might be made whole— 
 
I was broken, then, 
       a goddess  
       turned into bone-white longing, 
       turned into a hollow riverbed, 
       turned into an empty well, 
 
but I was more than all the constellations, 
       and he did not see that 
              before The Tower 
finally fell,  
       my hands raw with rubble, 
       my heart cracking 
              like thunder 
until it filled the whole sky, 
until it shook the ache 
       from my heart, 
 
until I took his name 
       and all its sorrow 
       and unspoke it, 
unravelling the power 
       that was never his  
              to begin with, 
       bending it 
into the wind, 
       until even the memories 
       became dust— 
 
next time I sang, 
       it was with my own voice, 
       my own song, 
a new beginning 
       out of the old dust.  
  

© 2025 Ali Trotta