Sunday
By Karian Markos
as a kid I wished for conformity
my name sounds like another word—
what vultures call their breakfast
like Marion with a K
blaming my parents for their ignorance of English homophones is unfair
their thoughtful creativity conceived of this mishmash
for fear a Spanish rooster would awkwardly crow my real name
on the first day of kindergarten—
kikiriki and Kyriaki sound awfully similar
and so abrasive to small, third-generation German Irish ears
and quite the tongue twister for a teacher
the solution—
Karian kicks six kittens quick
Karian kicks six kittens quick
Karian kicks six kittens quick
rolls off the tongue
my Greek name means Sunday so I could have been a Sunny—
Sunny sells seashells by the seashore
Sunny sells seashells by the seashore
Sunny sells seashells by the seashore
just as easy and no animals were harmed
as a kid I wished for conformity
for sleepovers and dances with boys
for ham and cheese instead of taramosalata
for time outs instead of flying shoes
for the freedom my ancestors coveted
the weight of my family tree was placed square on my shoulders
its reputation was secured in a vault between my legs
pride bedded shame and my tangle of dual loyalties was born
two flags two homes two names
Karian Markos is a Greek American poet, fiction writer and nonprofit attorney living with her husband and three children in the western suburbs of Chicago, Illinois. Much of her poetry and short fiction explores issues relating to identity and mental health. She is currently working on her first novel, a dark fantasy fiction inspired by medieval Greece. She donates much of her professional time to charitable organizations that work with children. Her work has been published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine and Bombfire.
