First Mother

My eyes are plastic
Blind with dew.
Oh Earth!
I am too unnatural for you.
Even my knees are suspect,
My elbows subject to your surveillance.
In a garden ages ago,
A woman who was my oldest mother
Was made of skin,
With hands of fruit.
After her,
The door slammed shut.
Angel with sword of light barring
The encapsulated botanical zoo.
Kudzu slid out the door at her ankles,
Always ready to charge and choke.
In her aggressive moniker
Ritualistic fire,
And through the chemical canal
That was newborn woman,
Plastic people,
Synergistic city sewing.

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