Two Poems By Jody padumachitta Goch


Wanting it don’t make it real. The story endings 
stay the same though you construct all manner of misdirection. 

You say this, standing on your near rotten porch
in your Y fronts, and dingy wife beater. A caricature 
of a B rate husband. Living in a single wide, just shy of the tracks 
with hanging baskets of geraniums way to close to your head.

You bought them for Alice. Like you do every Sunday in May. Muttering,
‘ain’t no use putting ‘em on a stone slab, ya can’t hang shit in a graveyard.’

By your side is an old bitch yellowed and white, leaning hard
against your leg. When you reach down and stroke those old ears,

I forgive you everything. 
Even the stories you never told.
Even the stories you did.
Even me.
Old Wives’ Tale

At first everyday then 
every week, every month                               
now, only national holidays.
How is that again? It doesn’t 
matter. I would give you 
my fresh cut grey hair-
gift it to you in the soft folds
of my drooping skin.
We could fly away 
on the wings under my arms.
Flesh that use to be as tight 
as a maiden. Now south 
is my enemy. Everything 
seems to fall down to my toes.
I ache for you and youth
the days when we lay together,
no matter the place, a camp cot, 
a sofa, a scratchy horse blanket

thrown across the moss of the bog.
Now the queen bed is too small

for my hot flashes and your insomnia. 
We lay together like chaste rubber dolls,

Barbies with no genitals. Gone to 
menopause hell, sweaty and tired.

Open the window - let the air in 
bring yourself back to me,
Fire up those hormones. Not 
for two hours, or all night     
like the old days. Once will do,
we have only this moment left.
Run your hand down my side, match your 
winkles to mine, pat the pockets of old age chub.
We have lived and love in changed 
bodies- losing height, broadening out.
Let our love spread like a Virginia 
creeper leave - the shrinking to violets.
At three A.M. when us old ones wake up
look me in the eye, say ‘I do.’  And mean it.

I’ll pass you the Geritol and lube.
Let’s begin something that will never end.
Old love, like gnarled perennials,
more root than flower. Grounded 

Loving into old.

Jody padumachitta Goch is a Canadian living in the German Black Forest. They write poetry and short fiction, chop wood, and train horses. Jody’s jeans and shirt pockets are full of words. It’s hell on the wash machine. They enjoy lighting her wood stove and rescuing words from the lint catcher.

Guest Editor José Faus is a founder of the Latino Writers Collective. His writing appears in numerous anthologies. His chapbook This Town Like That was released by Spartan Press. His second book of poetry The Life and Times of Jose Calderon was published by West 39 Press.


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