Jude Goodwin

I am the Glass


They pulled me up from the sand,
blew round commands into my hot mouth.
For a lifetime I tarried - transparent, loose
rimmed, wet - and sang for anyone.
Now it's all for her, the woman who rings me,
wraps her charms around my ankle,
washes me in hot perfume. I love the way
she hums when she lifts me from the water,
turns me in the moonlight. We're dancers
and I soften for her lips, slide my long
stem across her finger tips, stroke
the smooth spaces of her palms. She calls me
a clean beginning pours clarity into my heart
and when I'm full I let the world
bloom in my bowl for her - a ballroom
where she is beautiful and young
and I am her glass coach. I carry her
into the arms of dream, then stand by the mirror
and toss candlelight about
until she sleeps.

In a Chapel with Bibles

stacked along the wall, ten pews
at most and someone standing
at the back watching over a large pot,
everyone held a simple taper
and we passed its fire across the rows
leaving a bit behind for each voice
to adore. In the flame we formed halos
around words like 'silent' and 'night'.
The children were given lambs,

the adults, hot apple cider. A stranger
introduced himself and his wife
and all his kids and his kids friends
and they shook my hand. Somewhere
my daughter was opening gifts.
In the art gallery, my friends
were gathering for pot luck turkey.
On the street, night's black limousine

waited curbside, shining in the rain,
hymnals tucked in its door panels,
robed figurines on the dash
nodding their bearded heads,
a baby crying - I can hear him

even today as I load my shopping basket
with winter cold remedies
or stand in the freezing grey
park while the dog gleefully returns
his green chuck-it for the hundredth time.
In our bedroom, my daughter
is having trouble breathing.
I hold a steamy cloth to her nose
and sing mommy songs. She smells
like hot cinnamon, the fever
waxes her skin like a candle.