Untitled from Art Concret (centerfold), Otto Gustaf Carlsund

I can assure you that your name was a name-in-progress,

no more than a name from a list. There is that list of

names given to tropical storms and like meteorological

phenomena—and all men want to be remembered, for

what are names for if not for the simple gesture of recognition.

You deserve your chance for being nothing more

than a chicken finger in length. I regret the comparison,

but Saturn devours his children fingers first, a Goya of

the god exists, caught in the act, as it were, as though

raiding the fridge, in the chiaroscuro of a midnight snack.

I would like to think that you posed a greater threat to

Him, more so than we grownups ever did, who were

never so tender, who leave a funny taste now, but at least

you were—this phenomenon! For ten weeks you swirled

in satellite images, which the obstetrician took. You

seemed to coil into bands of rain and wind, the fury growing

and growing but only chasing its tail. Your heart’s

speck stopped. Your joy broke up before making landfall.