Tonight's Poet Corner: She Goes By Avery

She Goes By Avery
by Belinda Roddie

Her birth certificate states, "Lindsay A. Feingold,"
and that's it. A is but the second metal link connecting
a chain to keep it sturdy, the singular letter melted
like brass in an identity plaque. But she doesn't
prefer the name Lindsay, or Lindy, or Linds, or any other
hackneyed nickname that her buddies toting Bieber
backpacks can pull out of their lunchboxes. She goes,
instead, by Avery, an homage to John Scales Avery
(the theoretical chemist
and peace activist). And she likes it.

Avery is a spacegazer, first and foremost. She
knows she can't make a career from astronomy, nor
build a castle out of stars. Lindsay would be comfortable
sucking soda through a straw with friends at the mall,
or trying on roller blades and soaring down the sidewalk.
But Avery draws attention to the cosmos
with each word, remarking that her life is celestial,
and every day is galactical, and

if she could use a spoon to scoop white dwarf dust
from lightyears away and keep it in a sugar jar,
she would. And if she could summon a ship
from nebulae as brisk and sharp as sea salt,
and deliver birthday cards to the foreign visitors
with eyes as neon as frisbees, she would.
Lindsay A. Feingold may have found

all that frivolous. But to Avery, just Avery,
the Earth is a page in an address book,
and she has plans
to add more contacts.