GAIA by Lynn Kong
Gaia needn’t travail, she dines,
ingests fingers and whole mythologies
of motherhood and torpor. We ask her,
what is it, this orange thing called suffering?
Why did you have to make
bewilderment out of your first slumber,
out of your tasseled thrashings with the sky?
Why can’t we smile? You have
made eternal Niobes of us all, now we’re vanities
dueling with self. Tell us, what are we to do
with the eyes that own our skulls? Please
give birth to your own tears, tears for the tumors
that rub against our lives with tulip lust for you, Gaia.