after Emma Bolden

Storm steals like a simile. Storm seeks but does not find.
Storm will not remind you to ingest promises or pills.

Storm is not a cotton-ball cloud & glitter-glue lightning
on a black-paper bed. Look, Storm’s clouds scatter—

play duck, luck, noose. They shout & shiver.
Storm mouths oceans, swishes them between its teeth,

spits them sideways. Listen, you’ll hear the trees slurping,
savoring Storm's saliva. Storm is holy, hungry,

& slippery. Feel this, its hair contains whispers
brushed with dust, encrusted with tulle.

Storm is not angry in the sky. It does not house
raging gods, bowling giants, stomping elephants.

Storm exists in the sky & when sun burns
the clouds away, Storm is never the one screaming.