What we did to the earth, we did to our daughters
one after the other.
What we did to the trees, we did to our elders
stacked in their wheelchairs by the lunchroom door.
What we did to our daughters, we did to our sons
calling out for their mothers.
What we did to the trees, what we did to the earth,
we did to our sons, to our daughters.
What we did to the cow, to the pig, to the lamb,
we did to the earth, butchered and milked it.
Few of us knew what the bird calls meant
or what the fires were saying.
We took of earth and took and took, and the earth
seemed not to mind
until one of our daughters shouted: it was right
in front of you, right in front of your eyes
and you didn’t see.
The air turned red. The ocean grew teeth.
Marie Howe has published five collections of poetry, most recently New and Selected Poems, from which this poem is taken. She has taught at Sarah Lawrence College, Columbia University, and NYU, and was the Poet Laureate of New York State from 2012 to 2014. She lives in New York City.
