Before the dawn starts stirring far away,

unravelling young clouds and lilac-gold,

I will sit with you awhile.

You,

wet with dreaming,

will talk slowly.

This is ordinary magic,

a transubstantiation,

lead becoming silver becoming light.

The ground receives you like a sister—

there will be roots

that vein down from the spine,

a roll of bones to basalt,

a sacrifice of sight.

You will have rest from breath,

and then, only two memories—

that you once thought yourself a living thing,

and now

you are in the breasts of lorikeets,

the bleed of lilly pillies in the summer,

the whistle of black soil

after rain.  

Copyright © 2018 by Aurea Kochanowski.