THREE BY JANEEN RASTALL



Still


there are times
you think of the child:
cruel and bloody,
not much bigger than a fist,
the one that abandoned you first. 


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In the Yellowed House


 In this house
its drainpipe dangling
antenna pointing dirt down on the ATV scarred lawn
a woman glances out as the sun touches the rim of the lake.
She hears the siskins whistling to each other
pulls her robe closer to her chest
and turns away.


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 Drought’s End 


You wake from a flooded subway dream
to the sound of rain spilling off the roof.


Pine trees that leaned their brown tips anxiously towards the lake,
point to the sky.
gulls sloping away from the beach have suddenly stopped crying.


As you drink a glass of water you realize
you have been thirsty for a long time.