Culture | Inkwell

In the Wash

I celebrate

the whipping wind

that shatters our skin

like plaster

into the rain.

Because the rain

breaks

us like

a wishbone.

But I cannot see.

If I am the wish

or you are the bone.

– Mahak Jain

First Thaw

From the back-porch

the lawn appears as a retreating ice-cap

revealing many months

of cigarette butts thrown hastily to the cold.

Stashed by the fence, a brittle brown Christmas tree

and three broken china plates

that have appeared mysteriously

from under snow.

And with spring has arrived the weary duty of making right

what for months, untouchable,

has festered –

And the question: Is it my job to write

of another hard winter, or will silence

serve the springtime better?

From some unknown bunker, the cat emerges

and as if to answer, darts across the lawn.

– Meaghan Thurston


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