Our Prime Minister says the vaccine
is not a silver bullet
by Anne Casey
Primordial monstera fronds list
in the blistering shade, a solitary
kookaburra silent between
the flagging liquidambar
branches scratching at my
lofty perch—even the cicadas’
earlier vigorous castanet stilled
to a relentless dull trill—a scorching
waft occasionally riffling his breast
feathers, downy white
as snow coating the slopes outside
my father’s far-off window,
dusting his muddled head; icy sleet
piercing the winter
-pruned olearia where his cherished
blackbirds cluster on better days
and later here, the kookaburra will return
with his one true love and their
burgeoning brood to fill the swaying
evening branches
with their raucous laughter,
my heart rising to meet the updraughts,
torn between émigré anguish
and shimmering hope.
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