by Monica Mills
the billionaire space race
is one without a finish line.
space tourists auction star
costs, haggle down heaven,
as latitude chokes the poor.
on supersonic joyrides white
collars pray greed into hemisphere.
on Earth oceans thrash aflame.
souls without homes look for sky.
find smog. find dollar signs
disguised as constellations.
the shepherd is a wolf. steals the herd.
no scapegoats are leashed
in fields of crumbling infrastructure.
rampant thistles, dandelions,
leeches of the grain root deep
into soil and call themselves farmers.
Monica Mills is a Jamaican-American writer and poet. She is from Maplewood, New Jersey and has a bachelor’s degree in political science and English from Rutgers University. Monica’s work appears in journals such as The West Trade Review, The Anthologist, The Normal Review, and The Quiver Review among others. She enjoys rainy days and ginger tea.
