I am Wind
of despair, the moan of slaves
who can’t speak. The sky coughs storms
of locusts, a twitching black mass of tiny bodies
buries Egypt, every surface dark for days,
a locust cushion for Pharaoh’s throne.
“Make it stop!” he cries, as if he’s sorry he enslaved you.
As if I believe him, I blow away the locusts
while I harden his heart.
How easy for me to have blown him away,
pulverize Pharaoh and all the haters who’ll follow —
freeing you straight out.
Freedom gained that easily won’t last.
I think you know this.
I saw your suffering, I hear it still —
(“I” am a Name
for the power of a freedom story,
eye of wind, the sound of air
moving through you)
I am Breath
If you quiet yourself, you can hear
the still small voice,
words rising from air and memory
to shape a story you’ll keep telling.