Those of us born on soil foreign to that we now live upon
may understand how the exotic, unknowable beauties of home
become
somehow dry, modern
uninteresting
with their roots removed
Raha
In my mother’s mouth, my name rolls over the tongue like an ocean wave, crashes on the shores of her palette and then keeps whispering against rocks and sand as it sinks back into her throat.
Ra
unabashed, with the strength of a Persian king begins my name
in my mother’s mouth
cuts through thick moments as if to wake the whole town
Ra
Not raw, like my adolescent self, still uncooked, unready to accept the whole of me
but Ra, wide and weird
Ha
In my mother’s mouth it is a Ha of sudden, arrived wisdom. The sound climbs ever higher and crests at its peak, as if to look down upon the world from glorious heights and laugh just a little at all the commotion.
But the name is more than just a necklace made of its syllabic beads
in my mother’s mouth
my name can be a verb
not just a call to my person, to come for dinner or to do the dishes
but a request for freedom
to set free
and be set free
in my mother’s mouth
Raha
emancipates the air from the drudgery of mere communication
and elevates it to poetry
in my mother’s mouth, my name is a sacred wish
to set free
and be set free
Raha shodam
in my mother’s mouth
I came to be
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