raisins by Rebecca Holand

raisins

the best is a raisin sandwich

(the honey doesn’t count)

it’s in the press of raisins

the soft fold of bread

if I had a brother

he’d christen it

rabbit-turd munch

burping a beer

if my sister hadn’t died

she’d slip lox in, brie

mocking the raisins

macho-man caviar

later, by sink of dirty dishes

she would turn, grinning

raisins wedged

between her teeth

Still Home by Robbie Chesick

Still Home

The rains will come

(they were never here)

The Himachali sun is covered by desert dust

(the desert was never here)

The dust is gone, the rains have come

(the dust was never here)

The rain is here

the first clear drop

fell and now (it was never

here) here is another

and another

(

)

the final one is gone.

Stillness is that

which continues.

The tang and pierce of garlic fields

in midday heat erase

the smell of rain-soaked dirt.

The parching soil belies

the interred rain

(it was never here).

Now check,

you began with

The rains

(but this, the rains,

the heat, the change) are done

and you alone are here.

- previously published in in Vallum (17:1, April 2020)