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 shift, awakening, the call to action … to war, to war.
This bubbling up and welling over
Ready to regurgitate after holding it
for too long.
Time has been up.
At the office. On a date. At the bodega. In the parking lot. At 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.
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
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
Evasive, dazzling, moist, firehot, unforgiving.
Wild Mother wants to purify and see it all fresh again.
isn’t it a shame,
Men have no understanding of the savagery coming next
May the wind be at your backs.