Three Poems

Jenene Ravesloot


The train pulled into the station, hauling a long train of sparks behind it.
Coach noticed such things. Coach didn’t usually miss a trick. Not those
flying sparks. Not that overhead cloud slowly dragging itself across the
horizon like the train of a wedding gown before suddenly evaporating
right before his eyes. Not the actions of his boys he’d said goodbye to
in the locker room a few days back. Not usually.
Seated at last, Coach connected his scattered thoughts. How to manage
next year’s team, if there was going to be a team at all. How to manage
the new rookies whose thoughts would be on other things, how to avoid
fiascos like this in the future. He felt like Homer Simpson with crayons
stuffed up his nose. Jeez, he didn’t see that one coming—seven of his
guys taking advantage of a first-year girl behind a frat room door. So,
it just takes seven guys to ruin it for the whole team. Coach shook his
head. They ran a train, all right! He caught his eyes reflected in the
window—his wide and rheumy eyes—and behind them, red-stained
distant waves coming in real slow. That’s what he needed, a lot of R&R,
a meditation CD, and no smartphone, or laptop.
Coach yawned and leaned back. A train of good thoughts slowly popped
up like carnival ducks in a shooting gallery. He watched them get shot
down by a pneumatic Browning 1919 clone, watched them fall back into
darkness, one by one.


Her exoskeleton cracked under the weight
of the chef’s boot. Now her flexible antennae
rest on the kitchen floor like pieces of cut thread.

She was carrying forty-one encased eggs when
he chased her down—if only she hadn’t been
burdened by that.
Her four vestigial wings, three pairs of spiny
legs, and small head have been severed. Her
blank compound eyes no longer see a mosaic
She can’t draw air through the holes in her side.
She can’t feel anything. The ceiling light blinks
on. Nothing can rouse her.


He used to bark. He used to bark and bark and bark.
But he doesn’t bark anymore. I try not to think about
that dog. The dog was a real nuisance. He used to bark
and bark when he was alone in that dark apartment.

He’d bark and bark until whoever owns him came home
and let the dog out the back door. The dog never barked then.
He would roll on his back and kick his paws in the
air. He acted like a puppy until he would suddenly jump
up and run back up the stairs. Later, he would begin to
bark and bark.
The neighbors complained. We all complained. Someone
called the landlord. Someone called the cops. The damn
dog was a nuisance. Something had to be done.
I guess the landlord had a few words with whoever owns
that dog. The dog doesn’t bark any more. He never barks.
Never! That’s what really bothers us now.


Jenene Ravesloot is a member of The Poets’ Club of Chicago, the Illinois State Poetry Society,
Poets & Patrons, and the TallGrass Writers Guild. She has written three books of poetry:
Loot: Stolen Memories & Tales Out of School, The Chronicles of Scarbo, and FloatingWorlds.
Jenene has published in The Poetry Storehouse, Connotation Press: An Online Artifact,
Packingtown Review, After Hours Press, Exact Change Only, Sam Smith’s The Journal
in the UK, THIS Literary Magazine, and other online journals, print journals, and anthologies.

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