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Three poems

In Poetry on August 3, 2009 at 8:47 am

A Lump In Her Throat

I’ve spun the chamber
and the damn gun clicked.
So what then,
I live another day,
make plans, drink coffee,
think about the garden
and tomorrow night
I’ll spin the thing again.
I’ve called the police,
the hospital, the fire
department. There’s not much
they can do. I’ve called
the telephone company,
spent hours tangled
in their recorded maze,
finally I’m in conversation
with David. “Do you
have the power cord
plugged into the wall?”
It’s not the wires,
its the incendiary agent
and with no apparent clock
how can I possibly
write, sleep, love
the people I love?
A white room, a formica
table, and a Taurus Millennium
series PT145 – it’s all
available on Wikipedia.
A study in futurology.
This isn’t a good time
for God to go missing.



Every night she sits
at the computer
and goes blind. She types,
her fingers sliding across the keys,
sometimes she speaks the sounds.
She resists the urge to feel her way
to the kitchen or the washroom.
She fears losing the words.
Not the smell of river, in spring
full with blossom and long grass,
not the deep eyes of dog,
not the green, the honeysuckle,
but the poem. If it falls
from the desk, rolls outward
across the rugs, through the slider,
she’ll never find it
in all that grass. To be safe
she ties string from the monitor
to the door, marks each foot
with a coloured clip. Most nights
the poem gets away
regardless and after hours
of crawling around on her belly
feeling every blade of grass,
her sight returns. She takes out
the garbage, rolls the barbeque
under cover, draws a blanket up
over her daughter’s shoulder.
When she passes the computer
on her way to bed, its screen is dark.


When The Poet Complained

“OK then,
write me a play.”
she said
and the suffering man
suddenly found himself
at a table with paper
and a rolling Bick
and the table
was up against the window
of a penthouse
where he could look down on the streams
of people entering and exiting
the buildings below, the buses, he could see
the backs of gulls as they patrolled
for garbage.
“I can’t taste anything
anymore.” He whispered to the old books
and held them
against his face.

• First published in Dunes Review, Vol 13, Issue 1. Summer 2008.

Jude Goodwin is a poet living in the coastal rainforests of British Columbia, Canada, where she freelances as publisher/editor/author and illustrator for a variety of small journals and papers. Her poems can be read in various journals including Cider Press Review, Burnside Review, Comstock Review, and have done well in the IBPC: New Poetry Voices competition. Her website is