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She and her plump, brown flesh

Painted in all the colors that ever existed

Gracious in her gifts

From the oxygen we inhale

Deeply, if we are smart

 

Every morning

Her beans, her cane, her milk

Her leaves in our tea

Her petroleum and metals

Her acid in our batteries

 

The machines we run

To earn her ink and trees

It all came from her

The silicates that bring forth

Form and structure

Her wood for the cross

Upon which we allowed the murder of her daughters

 

Everything we have ever made

Was made from her ingredients

It is she who made we

But we bare her no reverence

Not a second thought

At any time

Of the gifts we are utilizing in the moment

Mindlessly consuming

Destroying in plights of superficiality

So blind, we can’t see how much she cries

And she cries so damn much

Callously ignored

 

As we suckle against her cracked and empty breasts

Valuing only her skeletal remains

Blasting off her Appalachian hips

Wondering why she can’t or won’t provide

More and more and more.

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