We Can't Drink Oil

The bosom of the Earth Mother upon which we feed
Fills our mouths with oil as we suck upon our greed.
The Earth is our Mother, abused by our fathers,
We roll our eyes at her and begin to despise her.
We look out upon her and see where she’s not pretty anymore—and look away.
We take her for granted, and we ignore her anguish.
What’s one more scar? What’s one more bruise?
What’s one more cut, one more bleeding mark upon her flesh?
Why does it matter when everything is so broken?
Why does it matter when the marks are already there,
Reminding us of the wounds that are festering below
Because we won’t let them heal?

Instead, we set our sights skyward, looking up at the clouds and the stars,
Looking up at the skyline, at twilight, at dawn.
Looking toward the light to block out the shadowy places
To avoid seeing what has happened, is happening around us.
Looking away from the places that hurt our eyes,uhh
Looking away from the places that hurt our hearts,
Looking away—from all that we’ve done to her.

Battered and beaten and bruised and yet still she blooms,
Bringing us season after season of crops to feed us
Even though we deplete all her resources,
Rip everything from the land that would keep us strong,
Pull everything from her that makes her rich to make ourselves rich
Until she is dusty and dry without even enough water to shed a tear.

Impenetrable desire for money and power lead to shots fired,
Hearts shatter, the Ancestors are crying.
The children of the earth are willing to die for this.
Are we really willing to kill them?
Backhoes and bulldozers tearing up the land,
Bringing the ancestors bones to the surface.
If this were a white cemetery, all hell would be raised with those bones.
The bones of the Ancestors of the peoples of this land,
Living people who elicit no more than a shrug
if even a second glance at their suffering.
What kind of nation have we built upon the bones of these ancestors?
What kind of nation do we live in? Where do we live?

We call the Gods and Goddesses the First Children of the Mother.
We call the Mother by the names we give to her where we stand.
Here in Colorado, she is known for the earth colored red.
We hail to her as our Earth Mother, Mother Colorado.
If the native peoples are the First Children of the Mother of this land,
Do we not then owe them our respect? Do we not owe them honor?
Do we not owe honor to their Ancestors, to the Ancestors of this land,
To the Ancestors of the people who were first
To worship the Earth Mother in this place?

Instead we call them Outdwellers .
We push them to the outskirts of our society.
We call them “less than” and corral them onto broken lands
Where they try strive to hold on to what little bit of sacred space they have left,
And we take that from them, too.
When will we learn to respect them? When will we learn?
Soon the oil will be gone, the water will be gone,
The food will be gone, the animals will be gone, and the people will be gone.
The Earth will remain, but if we don’t stop, she won’t be able to sustain us.
Earth Mother, save us from ourselves.
Earth Mother, hear our prayer.
We can't drink oil.