conversion

​

Weeks ago, I heard a lyrebird 

mimic a chainsaw. In its gullet, 

 

a song composed  

with the fall of a body.  

 

I hurried silently, scrawling myself 

over scripture, so that later, 

 

I could salvage aftermath

from wildfire. Holy reclamation 

 

is how I imagined my body,  

a land cradled by oceans,

 

affliction finally beyond reach. 

 

And yet here I find myself again, 

genuflecting before another open flame. 

 

I whisper to the mirror all the

memories I hope to understand, 

 

and last month wells up, shaking

like a storm before the flood. 

  

But as I take moral inventory 

of all that I have lost,   

 

my hands come up dry.  

The emptiness of realization.  

 

A bird perched 

across my larynx. 

 

This is no hospital, only palliative care. 

I peel back my papered throat and begin to sing.