from here, you can see the rain stop.
a sharp line where my mother still waters the roses,
or what’s left of them, the one green side of the dying pine
and the hanging basket on the porch—though she
always waters that by hand. the dark thin clouds
move like pencil scrawl, the sky wet and smudging the words.
too loud to crack the window most days:
these are silt skies, like clay, like skin, like rumble,
like the last colour on the brush. these clouds
are written by my grandfather:
the long slant of letters with words stretched out,
spread across the page. or rather, my grandmother posing
as him: who breathlessly wrote the birthday cards
and signed his name.
Jessica Anne Robinson is a Toronto writer. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Diagram, SAND Journal, and The Anti-Languorous Project, among others. Twitter: @hey_jeska.