Simeon Berry

On the river we must
speak in plurals.
The Greeks gossip

in their cramped
antechambers, embezzling                                        
decimals into the soul’s

off-shore accounts.
Fuck it. In Hebrew,
our name means He

who is heard, which
tempts us to believe
that you have your hand

on our ass already.
We are inviolate—
meaning we have

meaning, and sex
is the proof finessed,
licking the quick

from the palm
of the self. We're dead,
we’re mobilized,

we matter. If we tear
this tercet into sixteenths,
you'll see that a stanza

does not drip ichor,
and will not cry out.
It is not inherently

alive, regardless of
its ability to handle
any amount of guilt.




"Hello, My Name Is" is a section from a long poem, "Interlude," and is the least absurd explanation of the origin of my name.