our whole world is a third world,
a step-sister left behind in the galaxy’s
ugly cousin earth spinning on her heel,
raging at the cosmos’ beauty.
defective pieces of swept-up stardust
from factories that abuse labouring angels, we
offal from a flourishing inter-galactic trade, we
who want nothing more than to be saved
and nothing saved but us.
our unwatched backs, our shaken wombs, we
like all rejects, spill mother’s secrets
to anyone who listens.
anyone holding out his arms,
anyone who promises toffee and lies
about how nice we look.
mesmerized by their metal and muscle, we
ask strangers to swing an axe
into the sun’s gut.
at night, we whisper to each other – we
were not made weak and small for nothing, we
can slide into mother’s cracked skin and hide
inside her burn-red belly until it’s over, we
are fated to drink the sap in her marrow, we
can grow a tangle of nerves and veins until
each one is inside each one
and no one can live without killing
and no one can kill without dying.
thus, we can survive.
flowers in armpits, we fantasize
about another galaxy.
no factories, no fence-sitting angels
with halos of barbed wire.
no greater muscle than ours.
we pour yellow and black and red earth
on our eyes until the dream is solid
as earth’s bones.
we cry for this place,
tucked behind the knees of the galaxy,
gurgling in the crook of the sun’s elbow,
a place scorched clean. in her sleep
our planet grinds her teeth.
Sometimes I Wonder if
1 December 2013