The winds
were like the Inuit snow.
They had names.
It was never just wind.
There was the Northeastern—
run-of-the-mill wind,
your usual cold
from familiar lands.
And there was the Vendaval.
African sands,
smell of dunes.
A rare wind,
a hot wind.
A wind that would batter
the tall grass of early fall.
A wind that unsettled,
that made us a little deranged.
One is not crazy—
one has the Vendaval.
A time and place
where a Southern wind
could possess you.
You could cloak yourself in it
and be more yourself.
When the Vendaval blew,
my mother would belong.
First appeared in Book of Matches, May 2025