A Malleefowl Hatches From its Egg

The red dirt has trapped most of your body like a soldier

on Iwo Jima buried beneath volcanic sand after a round

landed close. Only your head shows – wet plumage from

the egg’s gum has groomed feathers into a slick mohawk

as though you still retain the bright dinosaur crest of your

ancestors that cools you down. Your bill bayoneted your

membrane right in the guts as your kind have drilled for

ages, even when your memories were more reptilian than

bird & we were just a blueprint in the bloom’s masterplan.

You are rare. Power-dressing with your eggshell shoulder

pads as you try to emerge from underground like a child

plucked from a drainpipe. Your eye dulled with sunlight

stares back at the camera. Your namesake cleared, you lie

beneath your broken shield waiting for the fox’s blow.