Postscript

What we did to the earth, we did to our daughters

one after the other.

What we did to the trees, we did to our elders

stacked in their wheelchairs by the lunchroom door.

What we did to our daughters, we did to our sons

calling out for their mothers.

What we did to the trees, what we did to the earth,

we did to our sons, to our daughters.

What we did to the cow, to the pig, to the lamb,

we did to the earth, butchered and milked it.

Few of us knew what the bird calls meant

or what the fires were saying.

We took of earth and took and took, and the earth

seemed not to mind

until one of our daughters shouted: it was right

in front of you, right in front of your eyes

and you didn’t see.

The air turned red.    The ocean grew teeth.