Mother Earth

Her cancerous teat; her putrid milk: hot, polluted, a feverish one-O-three. Suckling away. What the hell else are we supposed to do?

Some spit out the gnarled nipple, and it slumps: sickly and spent, wilted and gray. They did it together, spurting milk from their remorseful mouths, a collective protest.

I stop and watch its trajectory, the white mist falling like powder, heavy droplets raining down like needles onto unresponsive necks. The scornful cloud dews my face and clogs my eyes.

They roam and wail, lids half shut, huddling against the weather, against the extremes at both fronts, proudly starving, yet largely ignored, bony bodies quivering, while the hormonal mother sags beneath our weight: too little, too late.

In the throes of death, her wilted body gives. And the young blood suckles, ignorant, untouched, as the milk begins to cool. In this we recognize her demise, tasting it on our tongues.

And then some of us hesitate, hesitate, puppy faces ruffled, while the alpha males pump away at her slowing body...