The Cruellest Month

Belly

I have Thor in my belly.
Crouched, brooding,
he's rude, warning
of urgent dark storms.
A Thor in my side,
rumbling with blackest
intentions, stitched
with barbed wire
but ready to break.
Thor's hammer bangs
my eggshell head
where the smallest
noise becomes thunder.

What will placate him?
Water to drown him,
pills to shrink him,
a hair of the dog
to homeopathically
fix him?

I summoned Thor
with bad white wine
and no small prayer
will evict him.