Mother Earth, am I your daughter?

by Emily Ramser

Mother, just before I fall asleep each night,
I can almost see
your rivers beneath my skin
rippling with each breath I take
and your rushes swaying
on my boney banks,
their roots entangled with my veins
and the backs of your silver
fish flashing as they swim amongst
my blood cells and antibodies,
and Mother, I can almost see
your wheat growing
in my skin between the blonde hairs,
waving back and forth
in the light breeze
that tickles my goosebumps.

What do you know about water?

by Emily Ramser

Did you know that in 5th grade,

I sang my very first song 

in a school presentation 

and that it was about transpiration,

and did you know that 

my father doesn’t know how to swim

and did you know that my little brother

will only drink soda or sweet tea

and did you know that my mother 

lives in a state that doesn’t have any available water 

and did you know that there are trees 

called tributaries 

with branches made of streams?

You have named me

by Emily Ramser

At night,
you hold me in your arms,
and whisper my name:

Gaia,
Terra,
Earth,
and
Mother,

and when I awake,
you have named me anew
under the birth of the sunrise.

My Friend Jacques

by Emily Ramser

My childhood best friend was a pear tree
with a bent branch
named Jacques.
He hated when people ate his pears,
so he never grew any,
except once
for me.

I asked a cow if she wanted depression meds

by Emily Ramser

and she just shook her head,
saying she was a virgin
in sex and medicine
and that her body was a temple
for the carnivores
who'd suckled her on plastic udders
in place of the mother who'd abandoned her.

Do not microwave

by Emily Ramser

I didn't read the warning,
in fact, I forgot it was there,
and I microwaved my head.

My brain exploded.
It's still dripping out my nose
and ear canals
three years later.