Mothers’ Night

 
 
 
 
cascading shards
ripping
echoes falling
“It’s our calling.”
 
Rape of Earth,
hot spurts, invective words,
savage knives.
Abiding Mothers,
sacred and mundane
twist into harridan
cold stars
 
wailing, hurtling waves.
Sad, old, crust of ages
sliced, screwed, carved up for profit
“It’s not the color of the skin,
the culture of the smile”
 
the scent of danger,
the inborn stranger —
all excuses for Us (superior)
and Them (inferior)
“They are not our breed,
but lower curs.”
We may kill with unfettered glee.
 
Cursed, clubbed, cut to our requirement.
Borders clear.
“Heretic fear fences in
our livelihood and wives.
Leave THEM to putrid pits
cunning jabs,
our pleasure.”
 
Stunning, treasure that might regale,
heal, exemplify true worth,
sustain humanity and Earth,
sold for pittance of potash
to wage a weary jig.
.
.
.
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