In the Wash
the whipping wind
that shatters our skin
into the rain.
Because the rain
But I cannot see.
If I am the wish
or you are the bone.
– Mahak Jain
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