Breathing Poetry

Written by Jude Goodwin
She lives in Squamish, British Columbia, Canada
Her website: Jude Goodwin

Originally published in the Comstock Review, Spring/Summer 2005.

One grunt

This is my floor,
I'm down on it
cheek flattened, hands
on the wood. Its yellow grain
spreads away from me like wheat,
like all these things:
tumbleweed, dog hair,
the sodbuster’s son upon me
(one grunt for every nail);
the underside
of a long oak table at dinnertime;
my father with a bottle of fine whiskey
hiding in his pant leg;
and always the boys
kicking each other. Tonight
there'll be pieces of dinnerware on the floor
and chairs knocked back
and bellyaching
(quit yer bellyaching).
I never liked sex
on the floor, the convenience
of it and the acres
of accessibility, and it's so
cinematic - like the family supper,
everyone buffed and glowing,
the kitchen hardwood
oiled and ready.
If only those boys
could just settle down,
maybe the old man
would leave them alone.

Posted with consent from the writer.