They named me Diana,
they vilify me on their news reports,
they say that I’m insane, a category five
of wind and spinning rain, and they’re right
to run away from my madness if that’s
truly what it is, yeah, I’m a crazy bitch,
if bitch means a slow accumulation,
a fossilization of frustration,
a dendrochronology of all the things
built up over the years, the gathered tears
and tree rings of the ostracized—
I have receipts of all the times
they ignored my warning signs,
when my currents should have scared them,
but they said I was a phase, a passing
normal thing, and when they tried to ride
their boat through me, I was not silent
enough for their pleasure. Slurs tell on
the ugliness of the speaker, yeah, they
called me a slut for speaking up, for
swirling too fast, for my glacier-fed
waters swelling too high, and when
they tried to pass through the center
of my storm without an offering, well,
I am a hurricane—a category five—
I expect some form of drowning.

© 2024 Emmie Christie