I will not raise a child without her mother

I will not name my child Gaia because when she asks me what her name means, 

             her eyes wet with wonder, I do not want to tell her the springs of her soul have long dried up, 

             and her beauty is in antiquity. 

I will not name her River if the rivers are choking up with dams, 

             if they are welling up at their mouths, 

             or if the plastic coursing through their bloodstreams is asphyxiating. 

I will not name her Rain if the clouds hang bitter with acid, 

             if they are so heavy with hatred, they flood the land, 

             storm over shallow streets and turn them into trenches. 

I will not name her Coral, or Acacia or Sage or Dahlia or Savannah, 

             because I do not want to tell her she is endangered or dying 

             and I will not name her Aurora if she will become a myth of a polar sky. 

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I do not want to recount chasing my brothers across the warm grass of a childhood backyard like a fable or a fantasy 

             because her feet will only know the cold of ceramic tile or concrete rooms               and mine know different.

I do not want to describe the happiness of sinking my feet into a sandy beach like a treasure lost 

             because her blue will be the metallic aura of a screen                                                 and mine is the horizon.

I do not want to lull her with stories of Christmas winters like I am mourning 

             because her white noise will be the cacophony of cars and trains and planes             and mine is the morning bird’s mimicry.                       because her December will be the fogged window of an air-conditioned room          and mine is the snow atop mountains.

I do not want to talk about Antarctica like an artefact 

             because her Earth has failed                                                                                         and mine was failing. 

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I do not want to father her anger. 

I do not want to wait for betrayal to brew in her sanguine eyes, to explain why, 

             why you were born with the burden of corporations, of exploitation, 

             why you can write to a politician, but when your cheeks lose their puffiness, 

             why he will stop opening your letters if there isn’t a cheque in them, 

             why his echo chamber is your cage. 

I will not raise a child without her mother, our mother nature, 

and I will not leave her to mother our rage.