Poem
'Young Male Lyrebird at the Illawarra Treetop Fly', a new poem by Judith Beveridge
He has his medley nearly ready. He has pieced together
his own fantasia, even if just from the sound of an owl
regurgitating a pellet of bat fur, a park ranger’s
jangling keys, the creak of cable strain when bored,
Does the for lease sign speak of anything
else than the failure of something; just as
the desert required the lake to dry. Each
dark window waiting to be turned yellow
Wisps of smoke, lamplight on manuscripts.
Pages fanned across an oak stool.
The hearth absorbs the stain of living.
In my dream I was surrounded by seraphs
wearing morning suits, looking at me
quizzically in the crowded Parliament. Then I was being chased
by a Russian mountain lion who drooled a lot
your passport is out of depth keep a code in a quadruplicate place
drop it into a box or a cloud to renew your password enter
answers only you know the questions to family secrets
Feel it even now: such stillness
and yet – there
they are, again:
lights in blue
air, daylight
The pots are still dropped and pulled at 4 am,
but no-one fishes near seal rock for weeks, out where the shadows
of sharks and seals are interchangeable.
in the presence of a photo of
your mother, aged twenty three
her hands folded and covered in glitter
her hair long and black
A quiet night in the square,
taxis parked with their side-lights on
and engines cut, drivers
muttering under a fuzzy streetlamp.
The woman’s hands
are tied behind her back –
her hands are not allowed
to speak for her.
The interrogator lays his knife