To Future Believers

One hopes some Saint of Gaia will arise
in slums and landfills, comets in her eyes.
Her mouth will curse for all your starved daughters
and she will share your thirst—though not for water.

The darkest nights will come, and when they do,
look past the seas of drones, consider the moon—
no matter how they grasp with far-flung ships,
the rich mistake the stone in Gaia’s grip.

And when they throw you in their brittle jail,
it won’t be for the gentiles that you kneel.
Enshrine the cell according to your custom,
and pray—as I do now—for her to crush them.