All this lost summer, I check
my phone for ‘Fires Near Me’:
Namadgi, Currowan, Badja
on repeat in my head
like a hollow prayer.
I monitor road closures,
watch footage of fires tear
across the screen and listen
to journos, dressed as yellow
firies, deliver the latest toll.
Pungent, acrid, eye-watering
smoke invades my city;
the sun flames red over the lake.
I have cash in my wallet, a car filled
with petrol, water, and bag packed
ready—waiting for the message
to leave, but who can tell when?
I walk around my empty suburb
wearing my P2 mask feeling
like an extra in ‘The End of the World.’
Neighbours put out water in buckets
for our mob of refugee ‘roos.
One with a joey in her pouch—
head popped out; front legs
folded at right angles above pricked
ears—waiting for the message
to leave, but who can tell when?
Listen to Moya reading ‘Waiting’ (1:10)
© 2020, text and audio
Not Very Quiet 