May the wind be at your backs

Men have no respect for the savagery coming next

They have no clue when, what time

They are not used to counting 

                            Days, weeks, + 28, divided by four, holidays, graduation

It’s a pity because

We can all feel it

The Change–

The shift, awakening, the call to action … to war, to war.

This bubbling up and welling over

Ready to regurgitate after holding it

all 

for too long.

Time has been up.

At the office. On a date. At the bodega. In the parking lot. At home.

Home?

Even after we give you a home

For you to rest your heads. A place to surrender. A place for mercy:

They desecrate, pull and distort it.

Our home.

Time is up.

Mother Earth has felt the weight and burden

The fury and shame that comes with being scorned

Black and blue.

Or watching the skye pink full of smoke signals. 

Or men declaring victory over Her

body.

The same body who makes a blood sacrifice every month. Every moon. 

(She’s counting again)

Every 27 and a half days since age 9

I’ve been offering my blood as sacrifice for this damned colony

And what come of it?

What of Earth?

Her fury is wrapped in mine and we’ve been counting

                            Days, weeks, + 28, divided by four, receptions, menstruation

They may shoot daily but they have no idea what eruption is coming

The exhaustion has cooked into a mature, evenly-baked rage.

Cut our claws, control our bodies, take take take and take

But you cannot touch what you did not create 

and that is 

Our Wild.

Evasive, dazzling, moist, firehot, unforgiving.

Wild Mother wants to purify and see it all fresh again.

And my

isn’t it a shame, 

Men have no understanding of the savagery coming next
May the wind be at your backs.

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