Milk Thistle
Went into the river clean and came out with
one eye damaged. You told me there was time now
but heard it differently. I cannot hear
any of you as
the screamings of the mind have made ears
of new ghosts. It’s not the words that are hollow
but the voice behind it. Ready to be something
other than deceived.
Xerographic
The frag grenade takes nothing
it doesn’t already have. As the
lights went out, the
last scream in the place was
everyone’s
but mine.
Fever Dream
The burden of homegrown terrorism: a future
that exists only for others. Anything unseen
through a microscope has faded into the eye
and twisted with no refraction. It is only denial
if there was ever acknowledgement.
Amish Trivedi’s poems are in New American Writing, XCP, CutBank and soon in The Laurel Review and Kenyon Review Online. His chapbooks include Museum of Vandals (Cannibal) and most recently, Everyone’s But Mine (Paradigm). He teaches at Roger Williams University and manages N/A (www.nalitjournal.com).
