Swell
©November 30th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
The earth turns herself around
In her sleep.
She is uneasy, and clamorous,
There is pain, pleasure, triumph.
She dreams you into being,
And me, and all her daughters.
Spun from the same stuff.
We, her daughters, look into each other’s eyes,
And we know who stands behind
Those curtains – yes, you, and you,
And I and I, our surfaces stripped away.
All of us, spun from the same stuff,
Even the lying, thieving, enabling,
Hateful versions of her dream,
The ones who tear down their own,
Who line up in droves, to push each other
Aside in their haste to prop up the sons.
Who dreamed up the sons?
The earth turns herself around.
Deep in her sleep, she mutters
A name, but it floats away on
The rising swell of voices
Naming names, damning them,
Those who give nothing,
Those who take it all.
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