remember gaia?

Leigh Jordan
she well remembers us,
and how we interrupted her
(climax wracked, sky bruised, aching for more),
when we crept out from under the fringes 
of her discarded Sunday best;
her fathoms of green, more like
a wild Friday night, when there were no weeks
and she, unsated bemoaning the timelessness of blue;  
and we, slurpy leachates from a muddied conundrum 
crying hold me. Hold me. Hold me, my mother.

And my father was a fabulist: 
road kill was some fabricated animal just sleeping.
The magpie was a kitten with wings.
The car, a dragon. No it isn’t. Yes it is
and so it was, and mother was a crow, he said
listen to her caw, and so she did
between her sobs, as he dragged her by her hair.
Nothing seemed funny anymore

And now we play ping pong, 
while orbiting her girth
and to think it began, they say, when 
we, entangled in her rich earth locks,
first pillaged through her clay, glory vase or box
and found hope to be nought but a deceptive song
—fucking want, fucking greed, but still desirous—
no riches here, we plundered on:
myth as always,
the unreliable narrator. 

So we took the second prize:
swallowed the feel good pill,
the one from the cross. Got drunk on the blood,
flowing from the cross. Grabbed the cross,
the one from the hill. Rammed it deep
into the place of skulls, where you, my sweet
stole the mirror of your shackled likeness, and there
we left my father.

And how precarious in high heels, now you strut
one step above the thin veneer of concrete. Lightly tread
and mind the cracks. Your child will not hug you and that’s 
all down to the genetics of the sky, the blue in the colostrum:
The pinball machine was always biased, retro lean, retro tilt.
And Photoshopped, dare not squint into the green screen. Push out 
your coned Madonna breasts, and with algorithms metal muscled
we will play with steel girders, construct towers from grains of light
fondle buttons of long-range missiles. Scattered, every which way:
ants, anonymous, scurry one and all.

And those earthworm castings, under your moon-clip nails, 
that you call dirt, Gaia blessed it, named it soil.
So scrub, scrub and scrub, my sweet
—the worm bores outward from the core.
And the child’s bed is unmade, they cannot sleep.
And, if all is nought, there are no shadows in the cave,
only pleasure demanding every razor edged
immediate moment: gulping bits
probing thing, bits and things, and even
orgasms drained, cream for more.
And lust blinded, non-specific, honey sweet,
bleeds covid, climate-change and war. Handcuff

us to our observations;
give us this day, our daily atrocities 
forgive us our pathos
as even when we dress down
to tie the tomato stalk 
to the stake
we dress up, put on our prophylactic Crocs and hope 
that if we see you…
you will well remember, and forgive us.

Leigh Jordan lives in a very small rural town in north-western Tasmania, Australia. One pub, one shop and always onions on the side of the road. With some poetry he likes to unsettle. With some seduce. On other occasions he just sits and stares at base metals.



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