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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Walking in the Forest

Walking in the forest,

I tore my shoes off, coat off, past off,

irises merge into aquamarine fish

swimming from eyes to chest:

now a nest of soft dew between the cracks

of tree barks,

fingers edging on backs of

beautifully bumping roots.

Hands turning,

squirming,

into fledgling pepper green moths.

Naked salt-skin opens up like

undersides of leaves.

 

And the trees

whispered me these things:

“We’re wise, and old, yet still sons of this earth,

you too have been birthed

from this mother.

This is your womb, just like any other.”

I listened to them hum, these

old folksongs delivered by wind, like drums,

each word, a mellifluous golden heart

lulled by the her petrichor sweet pitch.

My footsteps followed to the beat,

attenuated tones of riverbeds and creeks:

I listened and listened like a child.

 

Walking in the forest,

she pecks me on my cheeks with sun,

lathers me in the buttery buzzing sounds of bees,

blankets and bandages my toes with primrose.

I thank her in profusion,

she shakes her head in confusion,

poses before me, and says,

“Welcome back.”