His

He digs for ore in my garden.
I sprout newer blossoms for
his mantelpiece made from
ivory and honey,
stolen from my other natural cousins.
His basket he fills with my babies-
Oriental cows milked for monies-
his sons will never see.

I refuse to plead to indifferent gods,
they control the sky, the stars,
except the elusive man
who steals, who kills, who drills
his likeness with his prick.
I grow sick, disease and death
surround me, my limbs too weak
to resist his radiation.

Maybe I will grow wings
only in my dreams now
I sing, paeans to all that was
sacred and feminine.

October 2015.