The Exact Middle

My mind goes,
Like Gustave Courbet’s,
To the centre-
A world within itself,
Creator,
Originator-
A flower opening its petals,
Like Georgia O’Keeffe.

Central in my mind,
Not the diabolical temptation it is named-
Rather like the earth itself,
Self-sufficient,
Fruitful if tended,
Capable of fury if scorned.

Like nature’s wrath it can demolish civilisations,
Start wars
(Allegedly)
And end them,
A wave breaking upon the shore,
Sweeping sandcastles,
Towers of fragile symbolism,
Back to the dust of their origins.

Origins.
We all crawled from the ocean,
Yet we poison her,
Despite our dependence,
Teenagers slamming the doors shut on our mothers
Even as she cooks for us,
Takes care of us,
Does our laundry.

We are short-sighted in our juvenile paroxysms,
Ignorant to our own reliance on the springs we bury,
The trees we cut,
The air we pollute.

L’Origine du Monde–
She gave us everything
And she can take it away again.
And like misogynists
We act affronted
By the vengeance
We invite.

Bonnie Calderwood Aspinwall © 2nd April 2021