Sitting by the window, sitting at her feet,
She told me that my name
was the manic screeching of the blue jay-
a shrill staccato scream,
a piercing metallic sound,
too guttural to be melodic,
too short to be a song.
I didn’t know then that my name
was a smokescreen.
A call to arms. A battle cry.
A battle cry! I didn’t know.

Sitting by the water, sitting at Her side,
She told me if I saw a shooting star,
someone was going to die.
There in the black and briny summer air,
far from the bright night of my city,
She talked to me of death,
and showed me the sign,
the portent, a flash of light.
I didn’t know then that shooting stars
were only space dust. And so was She.
And so was She. I didn’t know.

She spoke to me in Her native tongue,
so I don’t remember the words.
But the translation
lives deep inside of me,
and the rhythm of Her voice
beats in my blood like an ancient drum.
It pulses through me, like a syrupy liquid.
It surrounds my skin, like heavy, humid air.
A living breathing thing,
that calls to Me.
From the trees, and from the sky.
In birdsong. In the stars.
I know it now. Now, I know.