Linda Goin

Women's Answers

Here's an ancient question we ask our mothers:
How to die? The answers are ice and marble
mined by women wrapped in the arms of hopeful,
sweating our stories.

Dream of one way safety can circle after
terror. Drape it all in these wreaths of flowers.
Wonder how to garden a plot of pleasure
after a dry spell.

Roll a leaf of laughter and light it, smoke it,
see the vision sign to you. You'll see wheels turn,
revolutions, heads over heels. We're sisters,
spinning in velvet.

Mossy round and lovers, we're primal forests
waiting for our saviours. We rot and crumble
soft in foggy beds, until courage sends us
swaying in rapture.

Here's an ancient question we ask our mothers:
How to live? The answers are heat and blood; you
soar with joy and simmer in losses. Swim with
six of your senses.

Foreverless

When you generate
frenzied myths
of everliving love,
I become a mohair sweater
fresh from the dryer,
shrunk.

When you petrify
fluid time
with romantic rapture,
I become a plastic cup
in a dishwasher,
warped.

When you're inspired by
abstracts of
museful forevermores,
I become a flat soda
at room temperature,
dull.

This is a puzzle,
unresolved,
and conceived in Tibet.
Our identities, I learned,
aren't retained after
death.

Deadwood Burn

Here you are, sepia toned
on spit-brittled pages,
lips sealed against your bark.
I keep thoughts of you tight
in a box (where you belong),
fermenting in the must
of this cardboard container.

You lurk (snake in the woods),
sneaky smile, so self-assured.
Dark braided tail, beady eyes,
skinny - under twenty - we cruised
to a wild Atlanta bar.
That Falcon's quarterback -
what's-his-name (you know),
the one who danced on tables
before he found Jesus -
sat rounds with us.

You whispered I was famous.
He took my number.
I feigned nonchalance.
On our way home
you hit two orange cones
and turned the MG into
a tin can crunched
glass splinters.

I put this piece of you back
where you belong. A match
for wee woulds, intricate shoulds.
A slow burn on cold nights
keeps me warm, blowing
smoke and gone.

Linda Goin is an artist, journalist and poet living on the edge of Chicago. Previous poetry postings: "Poetry Super Highway" (Poet of the Week, March 5-11, 2001), "Stirring Literary Magazine" (May, 2001), "YankeeBoy Review", "Inscriptions Online Magazine" and most recently poem of the week at "Comrades" e-zine.