Two Poems by Jeffrey Thompson


The bird is
the colors of the bird
until it lands.
The shapes of the colors,
are the birds
as they rise.
A wire divides
the blue into two
pennants, licked
by flames.


Little Missouri

Below the beaver dam
instead of a bighorn
you see a horse
skeleton, unraveled by scavengers
and the current. You rise
from the silt into the rain and wind
and head back to the car.
You feel the muddy water
flow through your rib cage.
Stand tall.


Jeffrey Thompson was raised in Fargo, North Dakota, and educated at the University of Iowa, where he studied English and philosophy, and Cornell Law School. He lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where he practices public interest law. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including North Dakota Quarterly, The Main Street Rag, Passengers, The Tusculum Review, FERAL, On the Seawall, Burningword Literary Journal, and Maudlin House. His hobbies include reading, hiking, photography, and doom-scrolling on Twitter.