Call it short for green or the subtraction of yellow. Or the yoke of flood’s innards. This destruction cannot be a compliment. Hear that noise of chewed-up ruins. Stomp your hips against the steady wail of teeth crashing into lip frame. Your mother cannot be the one floating past porches but she might be trapped within the glass shards of salted windows; they crumble past. Listen to the pointed finger of earth. Understand the intentions of fire and lost wages. What did they name this one. They alternate gender and this one is called after your sister or best friend in grade nine. Now, whenever you speak, you think of water-logged basements and that staircase connected to nowhere.