the Sirens cut and ran once the sea rose to swallow their shores.
it wasn’t long before some fishing wire caught their voices by the throat.
it was too dark to see in those black, oiled waters.
zeus locked Hera in the oval office,
and the faeries and nymphs ran to hide from his spider-webbed tongue
creeping behind a full-toothed grin.
Gaea got stolen by a man in a suit.
her creation turned sterile in a half-empty courtroom in Alabama.
she took the last train to the west coast to see the sunset before it all went dark.
but the Yellow Wallpaper is peeling quickly now,
it’s starting to buckle under our nail marks.
our Mother’s night eye is getting tired now,
it eases shut every month in the night’s cool stillness
but opens again when she hears our cries.
there’s something very wrong down below, she knows it.
La Belle Dame is not without reason, not without grace,
but the woods are getting restless.
the flowers riot for a reckoning.
we're on the edge of a moon mend,
a fearful remedy to an ancient struggle,
cooked up by a Medicine Woman and older than time itself.
we hold the origins of life in our bodies.
it’s time to take back what we’ve lost.
the fight will be bloody.
not blood of war,
but of creation.