Screaming Trees



We suppose
the roses & suppose the stone,

the stammer,
the stare, the I swear I bleed 

these dead words in need of tether.
I cut construction paper stars

then sketch an ape,
clearly limping,

his mouthful of feathers
all dusted in blood.


Venture forth from the porch
& risk deflower &

a fever of teeth all about
the neck.  I am all ink

until my elbows itch.  You favor
porcelain kitties & quicktime

hipsters.   You’re a long time gone.
You were never really there.

Previously published in E·ratio.

Chris McCreary is the author of three books of poems, including Undone: A Fakebook (Furniture Press), in which “Screaming Trees” has previously appeared.

Object(s) to bring back to life: “I’d like to bring back men wearing suits year-round, but only if we can also have the pre-Greenhouse Effect temperatures, too.”