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Available for over a year

Root Your Words in the Earth I bury my words in your womb, all stories, and feathers, but you tell me it will not root any trees. My words are barren in your belly. You are the ground where we dig for resources, the black of coal, the bling of gold. You say we trample your belly where roots stretch to birth trees that shade. A radio blares in the background and the wires too are rooted in earth. The verb, the verb, earth as verb, our substance all mud, and grit, dust, and sand. We bury our dead into you Lady Earth, your sorrow is a saxophone’s wail, haunting. We hear the songs of your languished erosion, You a woman undulating with damaged hips, a seer with limitless third eyes. What is your song if not a lament for loss? You who watched the graves of yesterday with us when we were trapped in our homes as death strut across our globe gathering bodies like builders demolishing the carcasses of dilapidated houses. We watched fires burn trees in Australia, and your earthquake spring larva tears and ashes in Saint Vincent. These were your verbs, the salt and pepper of your poetry Lady Earth, the way your hurricanes chant down Babylon, yet your parks and green land invite solace and solitude. Yes I write on you too earth, pencil made from wood, paper from the trees whose roots burrow into you earth. But you say we do not speak the same language.