Red ink sundew (Drosera erythrorhiza) in Lesueur National Park,
September 2021, Calistemon, 2021
A paper cut, then a dark
red bead—heme, the color
of rust or a bookkeeper’s debits.
The oxidizing wick lit from lungs
to toes so we can burn, then burn
what’s left on our funeral pyres.
Living has its costs—debts that
can’t be repaid, all I can do
to rebalance those books is to
ask forgiveness. Still it’s not
enough to lift the stain.
Overhead. The sky, not needing
payment, opens its treasure to me.
