Am I Rebellion?
By Blake Nuto
Published 29 April 2025
When the flames tore through
there were shattered china plates
and fine blown glass in the soil.
And wild things cut their paws.
And their bleed became part of the ground.
And their bodies became part of the ground.
And the green ants trailed, feasting.
And it swallowed the tussocks of saw sedge.
And it turned the bracken fern to a soft grey nothing.
And it bowed the proud heads of the fescue and spinifex.
And by morning the cracked throats of the eucalypts burned with black — spat cinders.
And their aching limbs that grew slow and sure dreamed of dying.
And the delicate spider weaving its silky web all dewed, was gone.
And the lone furred thing had no growth to hide.
And all the busy, blood-lit life was lost to the tall forest of the mind.
And I said, ‘Sometimes I burn like that. Am I rebellion?’
And you said, ‘You’re one with the world.’
