Nocturnes: The TerraFormer's Morning Commute

You have watched the Great Plains platted by suveyors;
the vast forests confined to preserved compounds by land profiteers;
the high and low clouds given to throttling by greasy smogs;
and the light of your star---less vital, more carcinogenic.


In the dingy forward compartment of your car,
you rehearse, once more, the cost-savings of terraforming
("Previous infrastructure does not imply obliged repair"),
while listening, idly, to that oldies country music.


You will not compel me into the fashionable style
that pleases you and, therefore---you presume---
must please me even more to wear for you;
you presume wrongly and cannot recognize your error.


I will not be collared and given a label to wear.
I will not take diet pills and wilted greens, uncooked,
to slenderize a slight curve here and there.
I will not learn business terms for cocktails and social discourse.


I will only wear boots when weather and surface require;
nor ever those stilleto heels of which you dream so often.


I will wear my lover's crisp white shirt, oversize on me,
with the cuffs of his long sleeves unbuttoned,
and the tails untucked in my boot-flare jeans
that have faded beyond any novelty.


I will wear on my feet, and underneath my jeans,
the cheap supermarket, knee-high nylons---
the kind with reinforcements at the toes;
the kind despised by fashion magazines.


I will look like this at the flowing creek's edge;
or sharing late morning brunch on the cabin's front porch,
as the last of the morning's mists ascend the slopes
to vanish in the unbroken hills that surround us.


I will dance all Saturday night at someplace like
Gilley's used to be.  I will dance, fast or slow, as I wish.
In between dances, club soda and twisted lime
will refresh me as much as the appreciative stares


of men and boys who noticed the wild cascades of my hair;
or the way the light moves across my lover's white shirt;
or the eager glide of my eagerly stockinged feet
tracing intricate patterns on the smooth floor's tiles.


I will dance until well past midnight, when they play
the slower love ballads.  And I will say to who asks me,
"Yes, I will dance with you until closing, only if
"you lose those clodhoppers that might step too hard on me."


By dawn, I will be, still clad thus, on my knees,
having approached holy ground without objectionable shoes;
on my knees before the Maker Almighty,
the great Poiesis that gave First Light its First Command.


I have said all that to say just this, to you and yours:
you raped my sister Gaia and sodomized her;
you dominated and chattelized her,
and ignored the voices of her thousandfold scream.


You will not do so to me, nor to my sisters.
Guile drips from your words, "Aw shucks, I just wanna help."
Away from my sister's dying body, you have no continuing home;
nor welcome of your credentials among stars intolerant of them.


You will tread lightly, with respect, as weather and surface require;
or you will smother in untold pain beneath my shearsheathed feet.





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