I am not good.
I do not sit in the dirt and dust of my ruined house, refusing to curse God.
My voice is a tempest—raw and cracking thunder.
The Lion is not tamed in my presence.
He will not wait to open his jaws, to tear at my limbs, to crush my bones.
He will not hold back from devouring my heart, that wilted wicked thing.
I do not listen to my name called in the dark
or coat my hair in anointing oil.
I worry about the laundry not done, the table not set.
I am curdled and spoiled green.
I do not escape fire and wind,
or the belly of a whale–
–I looked back, and became salt.