You Would Call Me Lady O

If I ran, I would run and rattle your wind chimes,
distress all your pretty things, unwind all the baby birds
from their nests. I would be a hurricane, not clean
like in imagination, but roiled, a wave of yellow-brown
carrying chickens and stop signs, doll strollers and real ones,
indiscriminate. I would be destruction. You would call me Lady O.
You would never call a hurricane another name.


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