The hospitable embrace and singsong temperament were casualties of her pillaged beauty. Commanded comfort destroyed her; the milk soured; the nipple cracked. Eventually, the yolk stalk wilted, and the children built shuttles to take them to other tamable, if not congenial, mothers. Small-pock rocket ships full of lips searching for a tit.
Left alone, she sobbed and flooded the deserted cities.
And screamed over peaks and through valleys.
Then, one day: a millennia.
Lofty trees sprouted. And the torrent calmed to a lilt. The song healed the nipple, and between cracks sprouted life anew, drunk on colostrum. Mother, be well.
I invite you to leave a sentence or two in my comments section that builds off of this story. Or relates to it. Or has nothing to do with it. :)
“Commanded comfort destroyed her” really resonates with me, both as a mother AND a mother destroyer (participating in the destruction of the planet)
“Evolution”
Cries echo, circle,
Reintegrate into voice,
Sing a lullaby.