City of Artificial Stars / Jenny Ham

the tree watches as polluted skies envelope the night & smoke clouds her lungs. the cacophony of machines whirs and gears turn, digging into her skull. electricity gushes through earth’s veins, metal a blemish on mother nature’s face.

her heart pains for the laughter that would escape children as they named the constellations under her outstretched leaves, as pegasus galloped through distant galaxies and cassiopeia sat on her throne of stars with the shadow of andromeda trailing meteors behind. she recalls a time when the clouds spoon-fed her child rain instead of choking her with the earth’s toxins, when she could distinguish between dark and light, good and evil, yin and yang. when she could see where the sky met the ground and where the ground met the sky, and the man on the moon who would stroke his little dog, his face aglow.

her soul is deep in the crevices of the moon, while her branches bask in the moonlight, reaching for the stars as they whisper goodbye. but skyscrapers bruise the skies and oil taints the oceans. she takes a contaminated breath in a city of artificial stars.