Good Mourning

By Amy Thomson

Let us mourn the day
the Willows laid down,
down into the ground
to build the new town.

We built on their heads,
our hands are stained red,
now that they’re all dead,
we’re filling with dread.

The stream once crystal,
tranquil and blissful
now wan and wistful,
free-market’s pistol.

Our forests of steel,
shield everything real
our bubble we seal
in order to deal.

“The wolves have dwindled,”
we read on kindles,
“their homes we’ve swindled,”
“we packed their bindles.”

Let us mourn the day
our Mother will burn,
forever we yearn,
but never we learn.





By Amy Thomson


Cirrus elephants
dance in blue.
Green sprinkled toffee
melts down Nevada’s chest.


Night pulls off her
hot, sticky blanket,
Pours glittering, navy
syrup on top.


Outside the neon buzz,
the coyote’s lullaby
sings her to sleep,
somewhere softer.


Quiet dreams float
behind her heavy eyes.
A life of peace, weary from
the infected abscess on her leg.


Oozing tears of girls
stripped of innocence.
Gushing bile
of hungry mites.


Alcohol soaked,
her leg burns with
empty dreams and
wicked sneers.


Infection spreads,
clawing flesh
into flashy
human traps.


Shhh, sleep,
whispers Night.