The Literary Mirror

Rua something, once, in a language
half the street no longer speaks.
Then a freedom fighter's name, correct and dutiful,
on a signboard nobody reads before turning.

Then, simply, 'the lane by the well',
which is what everyone actually calls it,
official or not, mapped or not,
true in the only way that ever mattered.

I have drawn this lane three times
and stopped trusting my own hand each time.
A name is not a fact. It is a vote,
taken again, quietly, every single day.