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The Screaming Trees
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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.

Want to go again?

Amish Trivedi lives in Providence, Rhode Island. His poems can be found on RealPoetik and Word For/Word. His chapbooks include Selections from Episode III, The Breakers, and Museum of Vandals, out from Cannibal. He rarely updates the Trivedi Chronicles.