loving mother

this dirt is not as moist as the other, but will have to do. i am yearning for more to work with, a healthier plot of land, something that welcomes seedlings, feeds them what they need and shoots them out emerald and dewy for all sun and wandering eyes to see and draw strength from. a place to grow babies that are healthy and well and abundantly cared for, a structure that makes it easier to rear, a planet not diseased but sweetly turning.

i can take trash, but after so much poisoned talk and action enough is enough, why aren’t saturn's rings smoother to sleep on or neptunes nets a softer bed, easy air to breathe.

i want to love this Mother into the place she needs to be, her beaming body overcome with plague, dead skins hanging on for dear life and every particle at war with each other, who can grow if the dead will not admit their time to go, will not leave life when their moment is due? and so she moves lumbered and wheezing, diseases raring up and her creatures fleeing and sinking and sucked under by rough waters and rain and an unforeseen flooding, only she knew, Mother, you didn’t feed her and she was more than hungry, wholly malnourished and still you let her continue working at full capacity, coughing and pleading and buckling at the knees not only is she sunk in sickness but starving but angry but furious she has not been tended to after all the birth she gives, life she sustains, where was her water and wine, her communion wafer spread with cheese and fresh sprouts, who made her a salad when she needed greens and fed her droplets of tincture and hot tea before bed?

innocence is nowhere close to what i could claim but i will inhabit some shroud of knowingness, i haven’t been wholly in the dark, possessed enough pamphlets and mental beanbags to know something was up and there’s always more to do.

how do we categorize survival this way?

for example, i am sleepy, primarily penniless, without sex (save self love) in need of new machines to make things that feel useful to my current world, my own body quivers and yawns and begs for deeper feeding, fuller meals, more time to rest, more medicine in its many forms attended to by others, a break. and still i am sipping from a plastic cup, barefoot in the shade, i had the space, miraculously, to sleep for twelve hours, that doesn’t mean my dreams were good