J.D Goodman

I see your bridesmaid’s dress

but I cannot see your face;

You are turned, back crooked,

scars constellating your shoulder. 

Hurricane season on our mother’s 

Eastern Shore. Consider

three greetings; weigh, then

deny them in turn. The heat

falls, corn dies. October

sings in your pale boy’s heart.

And there’s taxes to file, wine

to uncork; once we’ve drunk,

your husband will drive you 

west toward the city. All the guns

of suburban Annapolis firing

to the sky in salute. Set alight

your heart. I’ll come behind you.

J. D Goodman is a writer from rural Maryland, currently pursuing an M.A in philosophy from Pittsburgh’s Duquesne University. Previous writing has appeared in Wild Roof, Litro, Lighthouse Weekly, and The Belmont Literary Journal.