Erin Murphy

Your Mother's Maiden Name is Not a Secret

Many security questions ask for biographical information that is publicly available, whether
in open records or via social media. – New York Times
 
I was born abandoned outdoors in the heat-shaped air,
everywhere on the horizon the smell of ashes
pulling me awake, several claps and then I came alive
like the trembling voice of light at dusk.
 
No, I was not born here.
 
I was born on a mountainside
with my eyes to the insects, with my ears to the root,
the tears from my birth pains
a whistle, a shout. Run. Don’t Stop. Don’t slip.
 
No, I was not born here.
 
I was born in Nogales, Arizona
in the low-domed hills,
hand pressed to glass. I feel the heat
of flames larger than night.
The distant moon
is a language we can barely understand.
I wish I were the spare shadow
of dark leaves where birds go.
 
No.
 
I was born in the right time, in whole,
and my share of time has been nothing:
bones of articulate hope
faded like old hair.
Wind-wounded, lopsided now
I bow to you,
a sentence trailing off,
dissolving in the hot still air.

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Sources: “Written by Himself” by Gregory Pardlo: I was born abandoned outdoors in the heat-shaped air,
“The House Where I Was Born” by Yves Bonnefoy: everywhere on the horizon the smell of ashes
“Birth” by Tina Chang: pulling me awake, several claps and then I came alive
“We All Return to the Place Where We Were Born” by Oscar Gonzales: like the trembling voice of light at dusk.
“This is Not the Place Where I Was Born” by Miguel Pinero: No, I was not born here.
“I Was Born on a Mountainside” by Hillary Kuteisa: I was born on a mountainside
“Vertigo” by Alice Oswald: with my eyes to the insects with my ears to the root,
“Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why)” by Nikki Giovanni: the tears from my birth pains
“X” by Imtiaz Dharker: a whistle, a shout. Run. Don’t stop. Don’t slip.
“This is Not the Place Where I Was Born” by Miguel Pinero: No, I was not born here.
“Day of the Refugios” by Alberto Rios: I was born in Nogales, Arizona
“My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer” by Mark Strand: in the low-domed hills,
“Eden” by David Woo: hand pressed to glass. I feel the heat
“The First Layer of City” by Marianne Boruch: of flames larger than night.
“The Distant Moon” by Rafael Campo: The distant moon
“A Language of Change” by David Sergeant: is a language we can barely understand. “To the Saguaro Cactus Tree in the Desert” by James Wright: I wish I were the spare shadow
“My Daughter Among the Names” by Farid Matuk: of dark leaves where birds go.
“The Rhinoceros” by Robert Minhinnick: No.
“Untitled” by Anna Akhmatova: I was born in the right time, in whole,
“I Loved You Before I Was Born” by Li-Young Lee: and my share of time has been nothing:
“American Zebra: Praise Song for the Hagerman Fossil Beds National Monument” by
Diane Raptosh: bones of articulate hope
“Ghetto” by Lola Ridge: faded like old hair.
“Storm” by Michael Longley: Wind-wounded, lopsided now
“My Mother’s Name Lucha” by Juan Felipe Herrera: I bow to you,
“Ephemeral Stream” by Elizabeth Willis: a sentence trailing off,
“Tide” by Maura Dooley: dissolving in the hot, still air.




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Erin Murphy is the author of six books of poems, most recently Ancilla, and co-editor of several anthologies, including Making Poems: Forty Poems with Commentary by the Poets (SUNY Press). Her poems have been published in The Georgia Review, Field, Southern Humanities Review, Women’s Studies Quarterly, and elsewhere, and featured on The Writer’s Almanac. She Professor of English at Penn State Altoona.