think of brushing out an old woman’s
dark braids.
Think of your hands,
fingertips on the soft hair.
If you have this name,
your grandfather’s dark hands
lead horses toward the wagon
and a cloud of dust follows,
ghost of silence.
That name is full of women
with black hair
and men with eyes like night.
It means no money
tomorrow.
Such a name my mother loves
while she works gently
in the small house.
She is a white dove
and in her own land
the mornings are pale,
birds sing into the white curtains
and show off their soft breasts.
If you have a name like this
there’s never enough water.
When lightning strikes, rain
refuses to follow.
It’s my name,
that of a woman living
between the white moon
and the red sun, waiting to leave.
It’s the name that goes with me
back to earth
no one else can touch.