Mother Earth In Desperation

Mother Earth In Desperation

Our mother has been sucked dry,

her blood cracks on our lips, our snake-like

tongue languidly licking

canines

sinking

into passion fruit, we eat her.

Crude.

We drink her up, gurgle and spit.

Rude.

 

We stomp forward down her hills,

stab her with drills,

she whimpers, clenching in silence,

then teeth scrape

with anger,

biting nails,

back of her throat fighting against vocal cords,

her green limbs shake and thrust up to the sky.

Pressed down, she winces and

contracts in pain as we

keep

digging into her breast for her milk.

Scratching through her pubic forest for wood to burn

to turn to green paper,

we venerate no longer, our mother

but that

 

through voices of birds and forces of winds,

she screeches

for help,

shackled mouth yelps

drowning in petroleum

tree trunks ashes in fire

yet incessantly,

she screams

squirming

struggling to breathe

under our technological ropes.

 

Like parasites we destroy our own source,

bite our womb and

bend down for the new deity,

perfect, rectangular, crisp

it shapeshifts like her:

instead of from winds,

to trees, to chirps, to waves,

it’s from fives, to tens, to fifties, to thousand.

With these numbers crumpled up in our grasp,

we walk home,

claws sinking into the soft,

concave belly of the mother.

“Are you proud of us?” we ask her.

And the

ground trembles, crumbles,

skies start to cry, in reply

and we wryly

wonder why.

Not a single whisper guessing it’s the pain

we inflict as we cut

that umbilical cord between us

and our green mother,

for that piece of paper.

 

Eventually, she will flail her arms back, giving up,

rolling into herself like a baby,

as her own

hand-woven creations cut her stitches

fry her moss, mountain,

fresh-water meat.

She will sit silent,

waiting for death.

 

Her kingdom is falling.

 

And we’re hungry wolves. watching

breathing heavily.

 

 

-Anthea Y.

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