Lit Souls of the Lost
The Egret
Debbie Lim
Otherworldly, celibate--
oh, manicured object--you're some
righteous sect's uncharred lamp wick.--JUDITH BEVERIDGE
She holds the wick of her neck in place
as she steps slowly down the canal.
I cannot help but watch: how she stops
to nail an invisible fish and pincers
my heart. In this morning's grey gloom
she is a pale rag dropped
by the water's edge then moves off
into bird again. Whenever I see an egret
I want to ask how it keeps so white
after days spent sifting through mud
and stormwater. She is a snip of paper,
a perfect template, all colour chanted out.
Column of precision, she knows just how
to disturb her world: each gesture an example
of economy, each day a bead of attention.
In the mandibles of pause, I'll imagine a place
where egrets are as common as water:
in public parks and suburban gardens--
city streets even. Some nights I dream
all the earth's candles; blazing
their thousands on temple floors,
swung in lanterns, set loose on paper boats
in the darkness. They could be lit souls
of lost egrets.
All night they burn.
By morning there is nothing to confess.
Debbie Lim
Otherworldly, celibate--
oh, manicured object--you're some
righteous sect's uncharred lamp wick.--JUDITH BEVERIDGE
She holds the wick of her neck in place
as she steps slowly down the canal.
I cannot help but watch: how she stops
to nail an invisible fish and pincers
my heart. In this morning's grey gloom
she is a pale rag dropped
by the water's edge then moves off
into bird again. Whenever I see an egret
I want to ask how it keeps so white
after days spent sifting through mud
and stormwater. She is a snip of paper,
a perfect template, all colour chanted out.
Column of precision, she knows just how
to disturb her world: each gesture an example
of economy, each day a bead of attention.
In the mandibles of pause, I'll imagine a place
where egrets are as common as water:
in public parks and suburban gardens--
city streets even. Some nights I dream
all the earth's candles; blazing
their thousands on temple floors,
swung in lanterns, set loose on paper boats
in the darkness. They could be lit souls
of lost egrets.
All night they burn.
By morning there is nothing to confess.