Infertility
Ciara Totton
Everywhere there is grass
the birds rise with the sun and fall by midday
there is no rain, no radiant mist
flowering in a gray sky
nothing, no worm, pine, or chestnut
has died here
except cats
trapped inside the vents
of all the old houses
and moths ignited in the carpet
cicadas who only hum
for a season, are clambering back
into the soil and we are walking
heaps of compost
stinking organic matter
but there’s a cure for that:
bind our blood to oil and we will flow
from sewer to waterway
river to ocean. We are the salt
of the earth. We melt like honey
over every claim to asphalt
and concrete statues and gods
for silence, for endless symmetry
there’s a cure, a flicker
against eternal sleep
offer us God in a palace
and we will stop asking
if God is the mountain or the hand
which painted the cloudy sinews
hovering at its waist
promise us Heaven
and we will turn this place to Hell
uncountable
though we are
eternal, we are barren
though God is no longer a man
he was never a mother.
Ciara Totton was born and raised in Spokane and lived in California, South Korea, and New Zealand, before returning home in 2022. Her poetry examines the experience of grief, empowerment, loss, and identity, as well as the immersive lenses of nature and physical engagement. She performs widely across Spokane for Broken Mic, 3 Minute Mic, Foray for the Arts, and Spokane’s Spoken Word competition. She has recorded her poetry for Spokane Public Radio. Her work can also be found on Substack.
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