I was birthed restless and elsewhere
gut dragging and bulging with ball lightning, slush,
broke through with branches, steel
I was bitch-monikered, hipped, I hefted
a whip rain, a swirling sheet of grit.
Scraping toward the first of you, hungering for wood, walls,
unturned skin. With shifting and frantic mouth, I loudly loved
the slow bones
of elders, fools, and willows.
Patricia Smith captured the voice of Katrina, and through her, you can hear Irma, Jose, and Maria, all the storms and the people devastated by them. I think of those I saw and their stories, which still live in me.
I’d be honored to help you tell your story.
Write me. Write with me. Let me help you write.