I'm Shira Erlichman and this is the slowdown.

My name is Shira means poem, proving that my parents are certifiable psychics.

Still, growing up I was constantly asked,

Shira, like he-man's sister, they weren't trying to erase me,

but they weren't seeing me either.

A name is a restless infinity, a Russian doll of meanings and histories.

When I taught high school, I met a poised student named Queen Star.

In college, I was lucky to chat on a bus with a woman called Patience.

I once knew a quiet boy, Miles. His dad was a cab driver.

This is how I know the world is populated by secret poets.

They're everywhere, blessing newborns with all kind of funk and labyrinth,

with a title so uniquely and hotly theirs.

We name pets after food, hurricanes after people.

A gorgeous blemish on Mars was dubbed Octavia ebutler landing

after the legendary science fiction author.

All maps tremble with human declaration and erasure.

So much land bears a complicated patchwork, a bloodwork of names.

There's power in placing syllables in a certain order and launching them into space.

Queen Star, Miles, Patience.

Today's poem is an exercise in reclamation.

In it, the poet writes like a whirling dervish,

spinning in luminous circles,

...