It was midwest cold, January,
the day I was legally divorced.
I took a hot bath where
sunlight danced on the tiles
from the light of the window.
When I moved, the dancing
changed: faster, higher, calmer, smaller.
It was still January, cold,
when I got my name back.
The name I was always called by,
the name I knew myself as
forever, all my life, until the day
I was married and it was gone
as if my identity didn't matter
I was just someone's wife now.
But the day I got my name back,
I sat in the parking lot of the DMV,
staring at my picture, the one
with the shit-eating grin;
staring at my name,