Louise Anne Buchler

You wont find Gaia on a yoga mat
downward dog
arse skyward – upside down, fuelled on organic oats and manuka honey
or on the self-help shelf at Waterstones on a two for one deal
where the essential womanhood is spouted from a font like the one you saw in Salisbury Cathedral
reflecting back centuries – along with your face
or in Oxfam, where you discovered a collection of poetry from the 70s for a quid – and displaced like a satellite, sat at Liverpool Street Station wondering why they all dressed like men and spoke of revolution

The only revolution I ever knew was the passing of time, and her hands as rough as brillo pads, cupping my face

You wont find Gaia bent over a toilet bowl
or in the poetry of a man who tells you, you’re a goddess and your cunt a temple – as he woos you with lines he’s written for other women, in other bars, in other cities – cum all ye faithful.
My cunt speaks of rain and damp heat – she is no more sacred than any other – but she is mine.

The only goddess I ever knew existed in a library book – vacant eyed and bejeweled, as a man stood watching me, his cock protruding from his trousers like an angry mute and blind snake.

We all know that Biblical garden of Eden – in all its lush, fertile ripeness was just a metaphor.

Ask the woman at the bus stop with teeth like broken china where Gaia has gone – the last time she saw her was trapped in a crack pipe – spinning out of space and time like a falling star
and now Gaia doesn’t visit anymore
and she spends her benefit money in one go –
because it’s easier to avoid gardens, snakes and temptation.

I am forging my own mythology
Gaia was always such a smug bitch
she can’t be everything
she doesn’t speak my mother tongue.

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