Gaia turned around: walked

The long way up shore.

She cast away stars

With the milky haze

Of her own skin. 

She has grown tired

Of division and multiplication

Growth of diameter, these

Silly equations.

She rubs the moons

Between the pads of her fingers

Flakes of meteors bouncing

Off craters.

Never there

Is one, herself,

To whom she

Caters.

Her face of

Old Earth crumbles

As if some

Recipe of sorrow

Had been caked on,

Baked in.

I have an

Idea.

Why don’t you

Wash the dishes?

Gaia snips up

Her stained apron

No more

Hurt heels,

Raccoon rings, or

Licking lips.

Gaia drinks in the

Sweet venom

Of her own tides,

Treads galaxies on

Petite feet

Who is she but the

Goddess in

All of us?