A poem and and art piece by the gorgeous and wonderful Antheaour mother has beensucked dry,her blood cracks on ourlips, our snake-liketongue languidly lickingcaninessinkinginto passionfruit, we eather.Crude.We drink her up, gurgleand spit.Rude.we stomp forward downher hills, stab her with drills,She whimpers, clenchingin silence, then teeth scrapewith anger,biting nails,back of her throat fighting against vocal cords,her green limbs shake and thrust up to the sky.pressed down, she wincesandcontracts in pain as wekeep digging into her breastfor her milk.scratching through herpubic forest for wood toburnto turn to green paper,we venerate no longer,our motherbut thatthrough voices of birdsand forces of winds,she screechesfor help,shackled mouth yelpsdrowning in petroleumtree trunks ashes in fireyet incessantly,she screamssquirmingstruggling to breatheunder our technologicalropes.like parasites we destroyour own source,bite our womb andbend down for the newdiety,perfect, rectangular, crispIt shape shifts like her:instead of from winds,to trees, to chirps, towaves,it’s from fives, to tens, tofifties, to thousand.With these numberscrumpled up in our grasp,we walk home,claws sinking into thesoft,concave belly of themother.“Are you proud of us?” weask her.And theGround trembles,crumbles,skies start to cry, in replyand we wrylywonder why.Not a single whisperguessing it’s the painwe inflict as we cut that umbilical cordbetween usand our green mother,for that piece of paper.Eventually, she will flailher arms back, giving up,rolling into herself like ababy,as her ownhand-woven creations cuther stitchesfry her moss, mountain,fresh-water meat.She will sit silent,waiting for death.Her kingdom is falling. And we’re hungry wolves.watchingbreathing heavily.

creativity and art

tuscan red butterfly hands

warm cup of loving

red is a powerful thing

the vegetable garden

an ode to rain; world in tears

Mother Earth in Desperation