Dead Earth

I cannot bring my child into this world. This isn't the world I was hoping for. No. Nothing can surmount from this. We say we work for a living. No. We work to die. We feast from a green hand, Thick and fat with desire. We grow fat too; Fat with our sticky putrid smiles, Our simple heads, Our obedient lovers, This eager child. We work until our greens fade to gray. We roll over; Greasy pearls at our throat, The cold sweat stink Of Coq Au Vin at our tongue, and lay ourselves in the dirt. But I am from the dirt. I am from the earth. I am from the world where We work only to survive. That old world, That dead world. I was displaced here by some Perpetual mother, Some perfect version of truth. And I fed. I nursed the palm of that mossy hand. I became that fat, simple by-product; That fleshy, mold covered spider. And once I was a kingfisher, A songbird, A mother. I tremble in my own corpulent, Unfortunate shadow. Disgusted by the hideous web I ceaselessly spin abound me. I suffer it yet I cannot suffer it. No. I will not. I will let my head fall, Slick and wet upon your floor; Seeping through your Perfect pink Persian floral carpet, Your sweet black cherry colored wood, That dank under hearth. I'll let it bleed down to the earth Before I let an innocent Stand before you. No. There is no room left here For an innocent And the stink of my pale purple exterior Would threaten the strength Of those young lungs. No. I cannot bring you into this, My dear willing child. I will not bring my child into this world.