The Heart of the Earth

The Heart of the Earth

One more poet
points the finger
at blooming flowers
that jiggle and shake
inside green boxes
resting on window sills.

They outrank
the birds who caw
at continuum’s
shaped in Plexiglas.
Continuum fights
off the holy, clinched fingers
attached to hands,

attached to arms
of Madre de Dios
who cries and begs
humanity with such questions as:
“What do you want today?”
“The world,” we say.
“We’re just civilians
who pour syrup in the Cheetos.
A weakness we find
very comfortable.”

Madre cries,
Her children
for help,
for release
of our toxic fumes,
poisonous hate
we clothe Her in,
force Her
to wear,
ill-fitting as these
vestments are.

She’ll grow tired
of the rags,
that poison.
She’ll shake it off,
the infection,

Rod Carlos Rodriguez


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