Today we present “Remind Me Who I Am” a poem by Ritter, a musical retriever with a passion for literature. You can find more of his stories, including the Loom of Hours story cycle, on AO3.

Read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitchhiker.

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If you have a story you think would be a good fit, you can check out the requirements, fill out the submission template and get in touch with us.

https://thevoice.dog/episode/remind-me-who-i-am-by-ritter

You’re

listening

to

Pride

Month

on

The

Voice

of

Dog.

This

is

Rob

MacWolf

your

fellow

traveler,

and

Today

we

present “Remind

Me

Who

I

Am”

a

poem

by

Ritter,

a

musical

retriever

with

a

passion

for

literature.

You

can

find

more

of

his

stories,

including

the

Loom

of

Hours

story

cycle,

on

AO3.

The

task

of

a

storyteller

is

to

let

the

text

speak

for

itself.

Not

to

offer

interpretation

or

explanation.

Not

to

impose

our

reading,

by

reading.
So

we

shall

say

only

the

author

wishes

to

dedicate

today’s

poem

to

the

trans

people

in

his

life,

who

have

renewed

his

cis

relationship

with

his

own

gender,

and

offered

him

new

perspective

on

his

own

identity.
Do

with

that

what

you

will,

and

Please

“Remind

Me

Who

I

Am”,

a

poem

by

Ritter

thousands

of

travellers,

passing

through,

passing

through
each

day

in

this

crumbled

tooth

of

a

city
jewelled

robes

and

fanny

packs
clinking

through

the

alleyways

and

the

temples
sampling

what

fruits

are

too

fragile

for

the

ships
gawking

and

lingering

once,

twice,

then

no

more
but

there

will

be

the

odd

stranger

who

lingers

too

long,
whose

gaze

sticks

to

the

murals,

to

the

masonry;
who

mingles

freely

in

the

public

spaces,
and,

upon

leaving

the

city,

is

hesitant

to

look

back
for

fear

that

their

newfound

love

will

retreat

into

the

dusk
but

I

tell

you

this

I

tell

they

always

look
and

when

they

return

some

few

months

hence,
and

another

few

months

after,
to

this

aged,

painted

whore

of

a

city,
this

prostrate

bannerman

of

pennants

torn,
they

will

knock

upon

your

door

and

say,
"Friend,

I

would

come

to

know

you."
and

whatever

you

may

be,

whatever

you

once

were,

you

always
will

be
a

good

host
now

in

these

amorphous

plazas
these

cobbled-together

courtyards

that

you

know

so

well
from

the

regularity

of

the

ever-changing

festivals
and

from

the

commute and

the

summer

shade
now,

wherever

the

stranger

points,
the

walls

sprout

faces

and

the

parks

grow

trees
and

the

graffiti

on

the

metro

wall

lays

itself

atop a

memorial
plaque.
there,

a

dragon

on

the

corner

of

the

Rathaus
menacing

wimpled maidens

just

above eye-level;
there,

an

expectant,

empty

niche,

scallop-shelled on

its

border,
looking

for

all

the

world

like

its

subject

had

just

stepped

out

for

a
smoke
(she's

not

paid

enough

to

handle

this

cloak

of

grime);
and

all

of

them,

to

a

one,

waving

at

you
Hail

to

you,

old

friend
and

you,

waving

back,

can

only

dimly

recall. . .
. . .

but

recall

you

do,

and

the

irony

is

not

lost

on

you
that

it

was

a

newcomer's

attention

that

forced

you

to

attend
for

the

first

time

in

a

long,

long

time
to

the

city

of

your

belonging
the

city

of

your

entire

life
and

you

this

mannerless

blob
these

streets

guided

by

the

memory

of

absent

walls
these

objects

out

of

time
Theophania

next

to

Tiffany's
beauty

under

the

paint
grace

beneath

the

muscles
(beneath

the

heartache)
Once

upon

a

time,

these

too

did

call

to

you
grew

up

with

you
until

you

grew

too

much

and

hid

them

away,
as

with

all

childish

things
tucked

them

where

no-one

could

see
could

see

your

love

glinting

under

dark

glasses
See?

See?

This

is

me.

This

is

me.
I

am

who

you

say

I

am.
I

am

not

that

I

am.
and

now

in

this

strange,

familiar

time
and

this

strange,

familiar

place
the

other,

gently

laughing,
plucks

the

glasses

from

your

face
and

with the

utmost

tenderness
places

it

on

theirs
your

light

reflecting

off

their

smile
your

bafflement

at

being

the

object

of
imitation/adoration/personification
your

doppelganger

a

portent

not

of

death,

but

of

rebirth
taking

the

worst

of

you

and

sublimating

it
into

drizzles

that

glisten

in

the

sunshine
carried

along

the

grateful

wind
that

patter

on

the

upturned

faces

of

those

who

have

yet

to

bloom
and

have

yet

to

grow.
and at

that

new

beginning,

when

all

extraneities

have

been

shed,
which

of

you

will

be

the

first

to

I'm

pleased

to

make

your

acquaintance,
My

new

mate

and

partisan
I

say,

you

look

familiar;

you
Remind

me

who

I

am
* * *


This

was “Remind

Me

Who

I

Am”

by

Ritter,

read

for you

by

Rob

MacWolf,

Werewolf

Hitchhiker.

Happy

Pride,

and

Thank

you

for

listening

to

The

Voice

of

Dog.