A sonnet for me and my sister, on rising up to the occasion of a name, and owning it.
My middle name is Rose, and so I felt akin to the bush that, in June, around mailbox bloomed, where in childhood I dwelt. Liana is a vine. Did she feel bound to her floranoma? Did she feel found in her name – a tropical vine clinging to tree for life while giving life and house to other creatures in forest setting? By another name, this Rose would not be the same. I’d be lily or violet. My eyes wouldn’t soak up this identity – tall beauty from afar, pleasing to eye; up close, covered with protecting prickles that help rise above enemy pitfalls.
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