Little Darlin’s not my name
Cathy Fink
It’s not cousin, gal, honey, or sweetheart.
Not little miss, little maid, little jo,
little shoe, little sunbonnet. Our names
aren’t sister, girl, lady, or aunt. Listen.
We had to play like one of the boys—cards,
drinking, jokes—to hold our own on radio,
at whistlestops, barn dances, schoolhouses,
church meetings, and every blazing county
fair in all the states they used for our names:
Montana, Louisiana, Texas.
Don’t call us bluebird, songbird, nightingale,
cricket. Not sunshine, moonshine, violet,
or sugar. Not brown eyes, black-eyed susie,
daisy, or laughin’ lindy. Listen. If you want
us, say the names our mothers gave us.
Recall how we really were: rawboned,
standing spraddle-legged while we
headlined those mean stages.