Mythology by Fiona Zerbst

— From In Praise of Hotel Rooms

Roosters irradiate the dawn. Come day,
this is my reminder, this is my gauge,
and everything follows. Dipped sky, pale
enclosure of grasses. Trees standing quiet.
Early summer. You cannot speak

but what bold voices call from the dark?
What mythological coming sees you
rigid, stricken, holding your heart,
as if something bears up from the bowels
of the earth, to rise all red in your open beak?