THE GREEN CHIMNEY
From here, you are rising,
commended to sky
through this portal; a testament
of cardboard and containment,
a body of eviction, bound in cord.
Such was the length of your crimes.
A cross waits with no name
on a naked plot. You are run
to dust, and stars,
alone and at last, to no ill use.

HEAVENLY BEES
Fields are falling silent,
and wings are vanishing
in an August wind.
They’ve all gone
where flowers never die,
and wheat dances among clouds.
Driven from the bounds of Earth,
they become the new fleet of angels.

A RUN OF SEA SERPENTS
Now I become your arms of driftwood,
your blue and gray, ripples in the sand.
Who turns in the shore waters,
but your legion, a poem of
armored skin, of fire tongues,
the earth’s very blood.
The world grows heavy in its cosmic floor.
I cannot release your bones of language.

Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. In addition to previously appearing in Poetry Bay, her poetry has appeared in The Cafe Review, Beliveau Review, The Lowell Review, Pudding, and many more. She is author of five poetry books and a short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor. She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com.