poetry

Trotting Mules

By Amy Thomson

Trotting mules fuel bile
while
counterfeit grins
spin
threads in my head.
Laugh at me,
I laugh on.
Come dawn,
grin wins,
charged with cheer
despite leers I sear,
whispers near
from vacuous lips more idle than
sneakers missing soles,
sneaking sideways glances into
missing souls,
I laugh on.
Emotional brawn
wrapped in eggshell,
dwelling in Plath’s bell jar,
heart tarred,
not gone,
I laugh on.

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