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.