Jude Goodwin, Canadian Poet

Jude Goodwin

She uses the personal to translate the universal.

The wind, the wind

The wind, the wind,
it's making every room strange,
the animals won't settle,
warmth is trapped in pockets,
there's one under this desk,
another by the stairwell.
Storm thugs are vandalizing
the neighbourhood, I can hear them
throwing things, a garbage lid,
roof shingles. They slide
their bodies along my window glass.
Downstairs an air raid siren
sends the dog to his wicker bed,
leaves me stuffing the cracks
around our door with sweaters
and oven mitts. The wind is barrelling
up and down the alleyway.
There's nothing to be done.
We must go underground,
follow the beetles and spiders,
take a lamp, a shopping bag
full of instant meal packages,
and a good e-book full of stories.
Read them until the batteries
run down, then lie down,
lie down I'm telling you,
and sleep.

Eclectica Spotlight Poet
January/February 2012


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