We became the screaming trees,
fired and stark, raining down.
Another saw the waxing moon
beneath the cover of screams.
We fought and cried, terrified
we’d seen the last full
moon, and hadn’t registered it.
We denied the screaming trees.
All the quiet we have known, fading
into the streets and running thin,
becomes a silence unforeseen, in the dark the trees will scream.
This gestation belongs at her
feet and my lips are radiation.
Another way of saying my disease
in tongues is finite
and melancholy, my festering dust relief.
I will turn this
devastation into my fits and screams
as long as these nights are
immaterial and until
all these moments disappear.
The Screaming Trees