Don’t knock at my door, little child,
     I cannot let you in,
You know not what a world this is
     Of cruelty and sin.
Wait in the still eternity
     Until I come to you,
The world is cruel, cruel, child,
     I cannot let you in!

Don’t knock at my heart, little one,
     I cannot bear the pain
Of turning deaf-ear to your call
     Time and time again!
You do not know the monster men
     Inhabiting the earth,
Be still, be still, my precious child,
     I must not give you birth!

because my mother named me after a child     borne still



to a godmother I’ve never met     I took another way to be



known—something easier to remember          inevitable



to forget         something that rolls over the surface of thrush



     because                                                 I grew tired of saying



            no it’s pronounced…   now I’m tired of not



conjuring that ghost I honor            say it with me:        Airea



                          rhymes with sarah



sarah from the latin meaning          a “woman of high rank”



       which also means whenever I ask anyone to hold me



in their mouth             I sound like what I almost am



hear me out:                          I’m not a dee             or a river



     charging through working-class towns where union folk



cogwedge for plots                &          barely any house at all



where bosses mangle ethnic phonemes & nobody says one



    word because checks in the mail             so let’s end this



                 classist pretend where names don’t matter



& language is too heavy a lift                       my “e” is silent



like most people should be              the consonant is sonorant



              is a Black woman                  or one might say the spine



       I translate to ‘wind’ in a country known for its iron



imply “lioness of God”                                   in Jesus’ tongue



            mean “apex predator”           free of known enemy



fierce enough         to harm              or fast enough to run



                          all I’m saying is                  this:



the tongue has no wings     to flee what syllables it fears



the mouth is no womb             has no right to swallow up



                                     what it did not make