Pressed against
a granite bosom,
kissed, askance,
by Mother, moving.
Tectonic shifts,
our fault, losing
the way, we’re lost
by the wayside…
disapproving
of this mantle’s weight,
bending shoulders down,
always down.
“Does gravity hate
my raised chin?”
Pull the corners down,
downward, defiant,
resisting,
rage against
the curse once gifted
and given by Mother,
whose hurt burns
from the middle,
and burns at the flesh,
aching, the earth,
wracked by ripples,
in bloody fistfuls.
Feverish maker,
blessed queen,
grant a moment more…
your idiot children,
‘ever undeserving,
may not have ruined
it all.
© CG Tenpenny, 2021.
Image credit: “Land of Plenty X” by Dorothy Fagan.
