Gaia Speaks
I was the beginning, and the end, and the bulging middle.
Gaia I was and will be. In the middle years I was raped by God. His first son, Adam, birthed the rest: a divided spawn of our unwilling creation.
Adam too was dual, X and Y. His so-called ribs, the fruit-bearing beauties of my earth. His X-driven mind carried the legacy of an unworldly power, a conqueror, which he fulfilled, for a time. Self-destructive in the end, leaving me with the rest… to rest and rebirth.
Adam’s deadbeat dad, the upstart God, himself claimed a cosmic father—a voice in his head, perhaps; just one word, unutterable; and the headstrong son brandished the same legacy, across the land. Truly, words have power.
I suffered the bruises and burnings, the likewise rapes of all the sweet ribs of my own likeness, maidens and matrons, all consigned to the kitchens and rec rooms of the lords.
I step lightly still in my tempo, haunted by his presence even in his absence. That dark force, so opposed to my own radiant light—why?
To carve into the melon of the moon, just because he could?
To perform clever antics, daredevil tricks… for what audience but himself?
The victims fall back to me.
I make compost; that’s what I do. Want some for your garden? What refuse will you contribute? What woody waste and tender decomposition? Then will you cogitate upon your success and failure, and mark the spot where you will return to me, your last deposit.
Though my appetite is endless, I have no hunger. Do not accuse me of pulling; just holding. Those parents of yours—definitely male and female, I wager—they go back to the first couple: Adam, and…
Now that you mention it, how did she come from him? It should have been the other way around, a virgin birth from the mother…
Wait, I know that story too. Mother Mary and Joseph.
True story—they dressed me up as her. This time cosmic swan man sanctified himself as a holy ghost. Same difference, same result—a troubled youth, misfit, always invoking the all-powerful father.
It’s the incessant naming that sets them apart, gives them away. They say we’re all created in his image, but it’s the other way around. Either way, a hall of mirrors…
When I just say, step outside, sit with me. These stories, warblings of birds, my birds.
Is it all just patter, aimless chatter? In my rain and nightfall, I await.