My real name

​cannot be pronounced in the English language. 

It is the sound of the deepest blue waters slipping
past sharpened glaciers which have never been kissed by the sun. 
Sleeping in black beds of crystal and constant 
change, they hold tight to nothing. 

Once a man whispered my real name in the half light
of sunrise, his hands flitting above my skin
hummingbirds home for the feast. 
Coming from his raw and beautiful lips, it sounded like celebration
and sex shouting into an echo chamber. 
It was thick orange marmalade, sharp and sweet on the tongue, 
begging me to eat from the jar with my fingers. 

It tastes of honeysuckle and regret, 
the heat and burning of one thousand freight trains grinding 
to a halt. Of deep space and stars, dust and the passage of time, sharp metal,
old pennies and gunshots fired in the wrong direction.

My real name sounds like ink pens scribbling on pages,
paint and glue, sunshine and grass growing through cracks.
It feels like hips swaying in a purple sunset sky.

My real name was woven into my braids before I was born and still dances 
barefoot in the dust clothed in dark skin, light skin. 
No skin at all can contain my stars. 
My real name curtsies easily but bows for no one, stands quick 
and proud as the sky falls around me. My real name raises its hands in delight 
five thousand times a day and doesn't settle for less than love
on fire, burning the house down around us. 

It is razor sharp and laid upon the altar each morning,
a blood sacrifice to the gods of transformation. 

It lies low under the surface of the water waiting 
for the right moment to sink your ship. 

My real name sounds like stubborn in six languages, 
feels like cactus splines nestled deep in your favorite socks. 
It's the noise a burning fire makes as the forest settles for the night. 
My real name is as old as the world and is reborn every morning 
as the sun tastes the mountain tops.