Proceedings of the Show Trials Following the Climate Uprising

Mathilda Cullen

The tongue of empire breaks the roof of my mouth
as the father’s oil reaches the newborn’s forehead
& drills and drills as our mother splits open. Look:

Capital’s hands around our throat choking
the lungs of our earth & the blotted stars have
forgotten us. I think we have forgotten us. I

adjust the dark to better apprehend this land
scape, the familiar pastoral: Elegy exhausted,
greed leaks from allegory, drips the people

bleeding. This is not metaphor. To paint genocide
pretty would be just as unforgivable. No one lived
happily during the war. To do so would be

just as unforgivable. Watch how they burn
the trees, numb to the knots tightening round their
necks. Oh, at the trial of gods we will be