I came in full, brimming with the names of my mothers
and their mothers

and their mothers’ mothers.

Here, the hymns climb up my skin, down my sleeve,
straight into my palms. Last summer, my lover held my hands

& said something about dandelions. That same summer,
the dandelions grew so wild. Every dawn,

We saw God hold sickles to them. Grey, the color
beneath my passion. The forests of my desire

grow wild. Inside it, deer lead their cubs to a stream.
See, I know the ceremony of desire —

the carol of a hunger only the body
can fathom. Every night, I go to bed naked as a truth.

I walk barefoot in my dreams. Under my feet, dry leaves whisper
my traditional name. Chukwuemeka. Chukwuemeka.

In one origin story, a bird picks up a stone
and built a temple out of it. It doesn’t end there.

In another origin story, a boy picks up a bird
and invented music out of it

and the world becomes one long song.
Do you understand what I am saying?.

In our own origin story, I am in a painting with my lover.
In the background, there is a blue sky, a white cat, a flute,

and a dove perched on my lover’s shoulder—
its beak brimming with the songs of our mothers, their mothers

and their mothers' mothers.