I answer Yes to Thunder Sky, Shrieking Hawk, Firefly.
My name is the color of cactus bloom: tangerine, tiger stripe,
marigold, marmalade, spice.
You can call me
Lightning Strike, Tidal Wave, Raven’s Eye.
My name was an argument my parents had.
(I heard it from inside.)
Scarlett, my mother said. Then I heard nothing
but her blood.
Over my dead body my father replied — the only argument
he ever won.
Or you can call me
Scarlet Fire, Hurricane, Riptide.
My name, the aroma of desert rain,
soaks the Smoke Trees.
I slip my name under my pillow, hold its darkness beneath my tongue:
Black-Eyed Honey Running Naked in a Field of White Horses.