Will Mother Nature Brush Her Teeth?

I.

Jagged protrusions of sturdy sediment banded & braced together.

Soft pillows hang loose, full

of the morning dew drop from her eyes and her mouth’s waterfalls.

Tall intentions weighted to the ground, saturated.

Upper and Lower Wolfjaw, Sawteeth, Cascade, landmarks from her. Given

to consumption, she inflates installed urban metal lungs

with bought purity. However, morning breath has burned her hospitality.

Smoke without a flame in wax lakes.

II.

Sludge smeared on McDonald's cups, a wet smile

strewn across them. Too much sugar.

Plaque crumbling; yellow buses pollinate black

potholes full of her oily ichor.

Young, plump cheeks hollow into faces of matured

bacteria, cultured in a Walmart parking lot.

Jowls, skin stretching across dried puddles.

Taut tents to hide bone valleys.

III.

Witness our squirms.

We clog hiking trails,

to escape cantankerous cavities—

we scale nature’s roots instead of our misdeeds.

Nevertheless, our shadows are cast

into our decay. Attached, a dark copy

grows with distance. A rubber band pulled

tight, impacted, and worn with falsehoods.

IV.

I wince at our inaction,

an infection reflecting

glass rivers.

They don’t disappear at midnight.

I wish she would get rid of this bad

aftertaste with mouthwash,

even though,

I hate mint.