Gaia
The earth feels sad. It has been hard
to see her shape-shifting goddesses go,
watch the solitary, able-bodied,
jealous gods take their place
in the hearts of her children.
Look at them, so determined
to prove themselves independent,
unrelated, even, to her.
The Greek myths rewritten to describe
gods being born out of Zeus’ head or thigh,
the characters surreptitiously flipped
in the Mesopatamian legend of mother Eve,
out of whose rib came the first man.
How hard they tried to separate woman
from creation,
even while insisting on virgin births.
But more so than that,
the earth is sad because their pain
is giant, and like with any mother,
it is also hers.
Children, they don’t always say what’s wrong
or even that they’re upset.
But you can see it in the way they act,
how they talk to you.
She watches them always,
their lives spent reciting their shame,
the mask they wear over who they truly are.
She listens to their stories, told over and over,
the ghosts of longing nostalgia flitting through
in the way Artemis protects the forest nymphs from hunters,
the beatific light around Mary’s head.