Gaia, how could I mourn something
I never truly knew? My father
told me of his delight after drinking
clear cold water from pristine brooks,
and how mists hid the Afro-like mountains.
I wish I could reverse time,
erasing years of unbearable summers
with brooks and streams drying up—
I’m in mourning, Gaia, for you, my father,
and my younger son who will never
see how beautiful you were
with hibiscus flowers in your hair.
Last night, Gaia, you came
to my dream again, still wearing
your burning blue dress.
You smelled like acerbic ash.
Gagging, you begged me
to hunt the tie-wearing
vampires who slowly drained
your blood through metal straws.
Why me, Gaia? I’m nothing
but a poet with a foreign tongue
searching my way like a lost leaf
drifting against a river’s flow.
Unable to speak for yourself,
you placed your burning index finger
on my tongue like a eucharist.
I smelled roses in the morning air.
My father is with you. He is moaning
the loss of his land—acres filled
with breadfruit, mango, coconut,
and orange trees. His tears, like yours,
are acid rain mixed with uranium ash.