What the Poet Is Supposed to Write About a Hurricane

What the poet is supposed to write about a hurricane
should be skylights of horror,
not skip rocks of beauty in walls of wind,
affixed to the puzzle pieces of the vortex eye,
spinning like a lost continent’s soul.
How the lively whips should stun the mouths of gravity,
hissing without hesitation,
engulfing the stench of uprooted dirt and grass.
The poet is supposed to decode the stanzas,
shudder the name María
into frail syllables:
to wish a hurricane a fast and gritty death,
not say its stubborn slow dances
held intoxicating possibilities and mysteries.