Forgetting My Name

On mornings in July
when the wind whispers
cool on my skin
I give myself permission
to forget my name.

What good is a name—
first or last—
when a body
and a heart full of words
is enough to identify
the soul’s place
in the spaces between
the petals of flowers
or planted firmly in the sun
with the lapping of waves
hungry at the shore
of some small ocean
of unspoken sound?
There are no mountain meadows here
or inconvenient reversals of roles
between mothers
and the naming of children
who cannot survive.

Instead, let me remember
that there once was a man
who knew my real name
and he called to me
with the clear voice of birds
before light and morning—
before the waking of the world.

I have spent so many sunrises
trying to find his face
in the depths of the dark forests
but I am always left alone to listen
and to forget my name
again and again.

For now call me flesh.
Call me blood
thick with human scent.
Touch the letters of my lips
and the outline of my eyes.
Examine each curved toe
for evidence of my rich female heritage
and the sound of my name
forgotten over and over again
in every language on Earth.

You will know nothing of me
unless you listen to the doves
at dawn.