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.