CYANIDE DREAMER

as we follow the paths of our carbon footprints

we take much pride in being organic;
after all,

nature was our gentle but raw-palmed mother
born from the grassy looms of the amazon;
she would spend her summers stretched out
laterally over the humming african savanna,
passively floating on silent currents of land

she would fervently slumber in the winter,
dense saline blankets keeping her warm; a
soft pearl in the marrow of the indian ocean.
when she awoke and kissed tender spring
onto your cheeks, you would remember her
as a reflection of the wild-eyed fall monsoon

you wanted to tame our wandering mother,
but you have only seen beauty in ripe decay;
so you tried to fit nature in a bloodstained
dress embroidered with calamity and taught
her to carve her bones while you scraped
her bowels clean of ample fertility to make
accommodations for your toxic ornaments

and now my mother weeps;
a dry tsunami