Thursday, 3 January 2013

Ode to Chicago Wind

The wind makes a strange sound, silent and
deceitful. It howls like a dying baby,
and cries like a dead lover.

I try to close my ears to the wind
and it creeps inside me through
my skin. Though a dead lover,
it speaks of marriage.

I ask the wind to go away, the wooden walls
echo with my horror. Mocking resonances,
the sarcasm of dying children.

The wind sometimes laughs,
the way violated women laugh-hysterical,
unhappy, outraged, revengeful. 

The wind knows how to freeze
you into an icicle of self doubt, and 
then you melt

into pure liquid sound.