Riverbed Sam Rasnake
All I can tell you of trees is this: They grew in the riverbed
— the scrub and bush and occasional tree — outside
the city, though this was no real river — just a bed for
runoff. But there was a flood. There must have been. And it washed me
here — some little death, some fetal curl among the spindly
limbs. Shoes, missing. My legs bent, my wrinkled nightgown, my eyes
opened to a heavy sky, and away from the one who watches me. Or, does
he sleep too? I couldn't say. But with such a quiet bending of the
wrist, my left hand edges closer to him.
Sam Rasnake's most recent collection of poems is Inside a Broken Clock (Finishing Line Press). He
edits Blue Fifth Review.
Detail of painting on main page by F. Scott Hess.
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