I AM THE MOTHER

By Rebecca Morgan

I am the mother. Your mothers are my arms. Although I am seemingly endless, we are all finite. My rocky core will one day explode, sooner or later.

My existence began with a bang. All the little lives file into line, lively and loud, waiting for their moment on the spherical stage.

Here is one now.

You can find her sporting a velvety red dress and an imported silken headscarf.

Walk with her.

The path is paved brown, a stark contrast from the bright colors on her shoes.

Her painful smile is the realest thing you have seen in months.

Of course though, she must be happy!

Admired for her esteemed credit score.

You are at a distance from my parasite, the tallest of its infestations is a gray slab looming in a jagged arc.

I grew as a rough realism, a bloody balance of nature that somehow worked perfectly.

But my heart has become heavy with the black smoke clinging.

My leafy ovaries watched a harmful spirit grow, one that fiends for material existence.

As huffing skyscrapers fed the baby, it became fierce and demanding.

The once bright excitement of a glowing relationship has fallen to a dark gray routine.

As offspring are born and replaced, the gentle reigns that hold my order are have been tugged away,

It is a slow pull at first, but then yanked away with a force that only a corrupt ruler could know.

And while the human’s violent hate towards each other has mellowed,

They sprint away from my grasp, creating a monster within.

My wooden limbs are growing thin with abuse.

I have felt the passing of my trees, their headstones marked with steel and grease.

Burial incense still rises around the buildings from the skeleton of the preexisting forest.

It was replaced by an outlet for the newest millionaire to make their big break!

My trees were an unfortunate inconvenience in the process.

The factories suckle my evil baby with possibilities of a growing net worth. The sky has become a blurry contrast of polluted reality. Gray smoke has accumulated and made a canopy, blocking the sun. It is replaced by a portrayed ideal, an impossible standard. The metal monsters are fed by a new, self-prescribed need in the hearts of many. The excrement is the source of worldly pleasures! From within the gaunt, rising giants, the muffled cries of dehumanized labor echo persistently, but are drowned out by the roaring hunger of a few rapid-growing bank accounts. The hands that labor over the products are raw with desperation. I can feel their pockets droop with expectancy for today’s check. The forgotten and unseen, suffering alongside someone’s shadowy morals.

And as collective purchasing habits grow in a corrupt system, so does the demand for new, invasive parasites. The benefactors do not suffer the process that births their pretty things, so it is an easy issue to ignore.

See, want, and buy, have.