by Glen Hunting 

This place’s wounds
are sacred ranges,

sagging houses, 
scarified sedans.

But body art can’t disrupt
the eruption of buffel.

Only the blossoms
move with the seasons:

spectra in rubble
waiting beside the rails.

Standing room only
for refugees after rain.

Glen Hunting is a writer from Perth, Western Australia (Boorloo, Whadjuk Noongar boodja), now living in Mparntwe (Alice Springs) on Arrernte country. His poetry has been published in Plumwood Mountain Journal, Meniscus, Portside Review, London Grip New Poetry, Burrow, and elsewhere. He was the recipient of a 2024 Varuna/Arts NT residential fellowship.

by Zoe Odessa

My heart is too big for my body / So you take a piece and hold it under your tongue / Hair
between fingers, criss-crossing / (weaving I love you I love you I love you) / into the back of
your head / Peals of laughter, choking sobs, stony silences / Head to toe on your bed /
breathing in time / You’d kill for me / I’d kill for you / Halving clementines and sharing gum /
He doesn’t deserve you / You stick your fingers down my throat / To clear out the dust /
Hold my hair back as I retch / Then kneel as if in prayer / So I may hold back yours / And yes
there are moments / Stretches / Of silence / Of wondering / Where have you gone / But you
spring back / as ever / And our hearts meld as one again and / Forever 

Zoe Odessa (she/her) is a 23-year-old poet and writer who wishes to be utterly consumed by words. Currently based in Cairns, Australia, on Yirrganydji land, she is at the tail end of her USYD B.A in English Literature. She loves difficult women and challenging feminist literature. She has previously had poetry published in Sour Cherry Mag. You can find her on her instagram @zoe_odessa_

by Dave Clark

I go on a trip overseas
and get these messages saying
that I seem to be doing a lot
more than usual
 
I am making the most
of packed-away moments
and several people are still surprised
and subtly criticise when they see me enjoy life
 
Micro-aggressive texts
contiki across continents
to suck the steam
from this dream holiday,
 
making me feel
like I’ve done something wrong
whenever I do
something fun
 
I chase occasions that transcend
chronic illness
and yet words strike
at these hard-fought steps,
 
flattening the topography
of my health, pounding it
to a plateau
of predictability
 
until I'm standing on an Arctic butte
veiled in pure snow
and can only feel the stinging cold
of their scolding
 
As my knees fall into the frozen
blanket spread beneath,
I make a ball of their slush
and sling it to where it belongs
 
so that nature’s song can be heard again,
the seraph sound of snowfall
mixed with the playful giggles
of someone so used to red desert dust

Dave Clark is a reliable human with unreliable health.
He is a writer-poet with chronic fatigue syndrome, living in Mparntwe (Alice Springs).
His writing speaks into grief, illness, justice and how we love and laugh together.
Dave works as a counsellor, creating space for stories of significance.
Instagram/X: @DaveClarkWriter

by Angela Arnold

Such a thin band of despair,
shaped with all the care of a parent
snugging a child's scarf. The kiss
of death a prolonged affair,
kicking the habit of living
with a lust and a zest and a violent
longing for air –
the circlet's neat grip
making it a monstrous appetite.
Feet still dreaming.
A telling hollow there
just a foot from where greenstuff
would have been made complicit.
The magic attraction
dangled just-so inviting plain
habit: lured home; beguiled
to venture into another
pale Grass Moon night.
A dog's bark in the distance perhaps
the last flippant comment
on a life now left as hairy powder,
forgotten bone. The final insult.
Some mighty Human
never even clucked in triumph.

​Angela Arnold (she/her) lives in Wales. She’s also an artist, a creative gardener and an environmental campaigner. Her poems have been published in print, anthologies and online, in the UK and elsewhere. Collection: In Between (Stairwell Books, 2023). Twitter: @AngelaArnold777