name

name is a windy thing
quiet down a hall

                            leaks through hinges

does it want to be caught?

I don’t know, tipped fangs, fire-points—
                                        want to be caught?

I think people bundle a name with them from place to place

in a basement, a bottle

of wind

a bottle of turn-it-over

I have so much holler in me

Copyright © 2018 Daneen Wardrop. This poem originally appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Summer 2018. Used with permission of the author.