The Wind
Often when I am alone
the wind comes up suddenly
as if to remind me
of all I fear;
doors tilt on their hinges
and crumpled lists
scuttle sideways
across the floor
but I pretend the wind
is the harmless burp
of the dishwasher
or the dryer rolling its damp wheel;
and if, in spite of the noises
of innocent appliances
I still think about death
it’s never my own:
my list of losses is long
and orderly: at the end
I’m left alone and the wind
comes up suddenly.
The Redwoods
They suck fog
like whales sift krill;
tattoo my clean car
with bloodred stains
spread from black
flowers too small to see.
On windy nights they sing
of darkness: a need
so strong they fling
branches at my roof
cutting the lights.
There is no blackness
like this, no avoiding
the exchange
of air and trees.
The forest exhales
through trunks in
rows like baleen;
we hang on
for our lives, hands
aching, palms red
with splinters,
layers pressed
into skin, breaking.
Erica Goss' poetry has appeared or is
forthcoming in Hotel Amerika, Bryant Literary Review, Tiger’s
Eye, Ekphrasis, Reed, Washington Square, River Oak Review, The
Penwood Review and Pearl, among others. She received her M.F.A.
in poetry from San Jose State in 2007. She teaches poetry and is
editor of Caesura.
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