JUDE GOODWIN

 Lumps

There's a lump on one of my wrists
not on the other. Sometimes making a doctors appointment
is the hardest thing in the world. A hammer
or a big book might work better. Or a sharp blade
and some tequila. What will I find? Too much
typing maybe, or a small, mouse-shaped piece of bone.
These things come and go. Time was,
we didn't worry unless there was blood on the hankerchief.
Now I feel problems everywhere, my left breast
over breakfast, my larynx at storytime, my pelvic
region for sure, chest pains. At the river
while daughter and dog skip ahead
my wrist chafes against the cuff of my coat.
Nothing is safe. Grief leaves little evidences:
a stiff hamster, a fish that won't swim,
a song that rises with the road. Distraction
is our only defense
and the shield of an Easter morning,
one long moment under a green canopy of beach and ash,
chocolate eggs in our pockets, footsteps
made soft by the wet sand.

Published in 4|A|M Poetry Review, Vol 2. 2007