I could start at the end, where I wave 

my legs in the air and say, 


you can fuck me now, if you want to, 

but that would be misleading. 


In a previous scene, I am driving 

in moonlight, the road 


a negative—a strip 

of ermine on velvet. 


Some sounds are louder at night:

the swish of gum leaves,


each crescent giving up

its minty scent.


For weeks I have practiced, 

standing, hours at a time, 


on my head, the sun bending 

my shadow. My mistake, 


I see now, was in being still.

Trees rarely do this.


On my first attempt

they say nothing, 


so, I rehearse again, rooting 

my arms in sandy soil, my legs


tilting towards the canopy, air 

flexing them at will. 


The Red Gums are perplexed. 

Strano, they say, repeatedly, strano,


and I can hear their caveat: 

To be a tree you must be born a tree.


I wasn’t born a tree. 

I will have to marry in.