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.

Abigail MengeshaComment