they brew in me.
They churn the wind until it is words,
until the leaves of my lungs
rustle, until beyond the night
there is nothing.
But we are locked deep within
our shelters: we call them walls,
we call them safety, we call them
whatever we need to bury far enough
beneath the sand that we cannot feel
Because these words lash like cyclones,
and she is a category five, and she is called