BY CHRISTOPHER CUMMINS
Copyright is held by the author.
Glancing in the mirror of a starry night
earth traces her atlantic coast, knowing the
years have not been kind, especially since
her marriage to the ignorance she made.
Against the silver sky, she measures
eroding wrinkles quickly creeping
down her hemispheres: beauty marks
of a better time etched from glacial tears.
She compares her visage to maps of
mortals from centuries past, but it stings
the psyche: memory of greenforest and
blue waters — drained or disappearing.
Earth turns the page of a verdant album from
1486, pictures with florid, fertile continents.
She touches her head, now patchy, grotesque,
old.
And elsewhere, even after searching,
earth barely sees her body — massive lands of
the desert to her east and further still majestic
peaks. Smoke and smog mingle and linger
in her graying eyes, beneath her wiry hair.
Beauty fades, she says to herself, but
I feel older than I am. She turns to 1725 and sighs.
Even then, she says, I was not scarred with canals
or pock-marked with cement. She rubs the elbow
of her longitude, admitting, even then, vanity
probably began.
Waking to the warm morning, earth scratches the
scab of cancer and recalls 2.6 million years ago
when her icy skin shined like diamonds:
faults and frailty seemed inconceivable
much less mapped by cartographers, her very
children.
***

Chris Cummins lives in Buffalo, N.Y., U.S. He teaches English, creative writing & drama. He most recently wrote & produced two locally performed musicals. He’s been featured in Heduan Review, Book of Matches, Literary Heist, WordSwell, Lothlorien, Weathervane, Collateral, Buffalo News, & small presses.