The Name

They are your three syllables.
The one utterance I can never meet with dispassion.
Be it--
        a pupil with purple hair answering “present”
the first person massacred in a murder mystery
        a diapered newborn napping in a nursery
        or just the boring boy down the block
It makes no difference.
The sound is the twist of a tuning fork in my heart,
And my ears will become satellite dishes to receive it.

What I’m saying is
If I had to choose one of two strangers to die
If one bore your name, they would live.