One Fifty Seven AM

By Amy Thomson

Eyes droop like July’s
dehydrated hydrangeas
and December’s trees.


It’s Just A Drill

By Amy Thomson 

Heart pounds my chest wall,
like a prisoner locked inside
a burning building.

Hands pour buckets of
cold, clammy sweat, drenches my
fear in gasoline.

Fear grips my stomach
squeezing out my fortitude.
Smoke clouds my vision.

I know this will pass,
but my lack of oxygen
wipes my memory clean.

Fire licks my bones,
relishing my anxious blood.
I admit defeat.

Flames fade to embers,
my remnants beam bright cerise,
I stand derelict.

It is only him
that can subdue my panic,
suffocate the blaze.

For he is warm socks
after trudging through the snow,
the first sip of tea.

He is a cool breeze
in a blistering summer
caressing my cheek.

He is the scent of
a charming, used bookstore mixed
with morning coffee.

That relief that comes
with sleeping in on Sunday,
no obligations.

With him, I know I
can rebuild my charred remains,
my fear non-lethal.