Of Course, We Worried About Your Name, Lucy—

the way younger children will untie
its shoelaces, the way older might undo its
belt. After all, you are a devil in a blue
dress, your hands poised to snatch the ball
from a long line of feet desperate to make
a little contact. And back, you are a Ball
of a belle, so silly under a twisted red mop
no one catches that you’re actually brilliant, your
comic grimace a way to ward off ogling eyes
licking their eyelids to call you a stunner, call on
you until your virtue would have some
real splainin’ to do. We knew, though, the moment
we learned it meant light, it was you, who we’ve
been holding responsible for every sunrise
since your conception. And back, there was
Saint Lucy, who clung to her virginity like
the hem of a blue dress ripped into rags
to tend to the wounds of the poor. And when the
soldiers came to her door to drag her body
to a brothel for giving her dowry to those in more
need than her husband, legend has it they could
not move her even when they had her hitched
to a team of oxen. They buried her feet in bundles
of wood but she would not burn for them, or any
man. She was her own luminary, and when
they ogled at her eyes, she plucked them from
their sight and became the patron saint
of the blind. You are destined to lead the life of
your choosing, Lucy, and no bushel made
may hide your extraordinary shine.