Feel it in the back of your throat:
the kick, the thunder along
your tongue. Cheeks creasing, gums graveling,
it dances to your glottal winds.
Molars clink together as the storm strains to escape
its flesh cage. It landscapes your skin:
bitty hills rise up—indignant—as it tortures
your tongue: a lightening char, smoked-out
grilling of the palette.
Carbonized petrichor steams your cavity,
gagging your pipe. Even then, your jaws remain
locked, teeth ground together—in the end,
a diagnosis: oral hurricane/speech paralysis.