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.
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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 |
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January 2025
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