Hurricane Beryl

By Indiana Plant

Salt-slick as tongue to tears, fishermen tuck their nets,

Revive drowned boats with pulleys and prayers.

Thick as soup I scent the air, damp enough to curl,

My stomach yearning half-full for fodder to keep:

House shingles, palm fronds, severed limbs.

What a laugh to devour men, to whip names

Out of mouths with quick sultry wind:

Grenada, Carriacou, St. Vincent.

Tomorrow, brunch. A juice of screams in Jamaica.

Aftertaste of nutmeg from the black gold harvest.

I will swallow all I can, power lines or old man,

Be the designated Goddess: if a dirt, a dirt.

I will lick, nibble, suck the shore to dust — 

          Dirt — 

Lovely like my moniker, clear-blue cruel.

Hungry? Starving, gravid, mothering.

I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.