We are dots on a globe
that sustains us.
Our understanding decreases
as historical, hysterical notes
chronicle a human infestation.

The earth cracks, erupts,
bleeds in lava,
cries hurricanes,
wails tsunamis.

We stab and drill inside her
empty her bowels of oil
replace with toxic water
as if she were not living
and we didn’t poison mother.

Our cauliflower ears,
coffee and sea blue eyes
register desire
propped by dogma of dominion
exalted to gods
who enslave their own.

Look, I never gave up alters
but I never gave up reason..
If I just spread my arms,
open my hands
as if to fly like the angel
I believe I am,
my faith will not save me.
My lack will haunt me.
I will fall in the reality
of gravity
as my mind soars.

I may not believe in science
but it believes in me.
Belinda Subraman has been writing poetry since the 6th grade and publishing since college. She had a ten year run editing and publishing Gypsy Literary Magazine (last century). Six of those ten years were from Germany where she was a Bohemian outcast among officer wives. She edited books by Vergin' Press, among them: Henry Miller and My Big Sur Days by Judson Crews. Forthcoming from Unlikely Books: Left Hand Dharma: New and Selected Poems.
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