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.


Strawberry Amma said...

After the good post, this was horrendous.

little boxes said...

^ i am probably a very bad judge of poetry but the first two stanzas blew me away.

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