by Elaine Mead

the once warm house grows
cold as grief penetrates the
constant hum of night.

burnt umber
hues remind me of
our decay. 

golden morning light
slices strips on the bare skin
you leave now for good.

Elaine is a writer and educator, currently based in Hobart, Tasmania. Her flash and micro fiction have been published with Reflex Press, Bath Flash Fiction, National Flash Fiction Day, Geelong Writers Anthology, and others. You can find her on most social media under @wordswithelaine 

by Rae White
​
the land next door 
is up for sale.
masked lapwings 
on high rise limbs
prowl construction site 
ground: ‘if it flat, we nest’.
bright white queenslander
sits propped high
on jenga blocks 
awaiting next month’s 
big move: five inches 
forward, one inch right.
men till the ground
mow
clip
cut
fell. 
it all grows back 
within a week 
and is left to the house 
hunting lapwings 
and their pink galah 
kin: squawking 
and rummaging
the overgrown earth,
always after 
the latest seeds,
always after 
what’s 
next.

Rae White is a non-binary transgender poet, writer and zinester. Their poetry collection Milk Teeth (UQP) won 2017 Arts Queensland Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for 2019 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards. Rae is the founding editor of #EnbyLife, a journal for non-binary and gender diverse creatives.

by Alexandra McCallum 

Smoked eel against my tongue 
comes apart in flakes;
Sticks out sideways 
like splinters of wood from the fence.
I’m five. Or four. Or three.  
Small enough anyway to think that the pine trees above us 
have been here a century instead of forty years.
Too small to know that it was you who dropped the flying seeds into hot ground,
That this is not a wild accidental forest; or birds transplanting as they flew.
But the trees are too dark, too tall and I ignore them. 

I see the strange shape of flavours I don’t have names for 
and your fingers as you pull pieces off the bone.
You’re talking too. We are talking. But the only thing I remember is
That you held out the skull, flat and lovely, and shoved it between the fenceposts
“Because the ants need some too.” I watch them swarm over splinters of meat 
And I love eel forever.
There is more to come 
with you who always put food where conversations should go 
Angry the day I ruined your practical joke
because I couldn’t watch my grandmother panic.
Angry the day you taught me the words economic migrant; so I wouldn’t get your story wrong
Not angry the day I was in the way, and swinging to avoid me
You broke a toe.

Alexandra McCallum writes fiction, poetry and performance work. She is also an oral storyteller and community cultural development facilitator. Her work has appeared in Artshub, Running Dog, Brisbane Modern and Best of Bareknuckle Poet and was selected for the US writers’ workshop Tin House. Her scripts have had readings at Metro Arts and the Judith Wright Centre and she has co-written scripts for school touring. Between 2007 and 2009 she facilitated Screech Theatre in which young people with and without disability came together to make new work. She has also facilitated numerous other projects and workshops and performed at festivals and galleries.

by Raynen Bajette O'Keefe

vengeful occupant
is it not we were here together
for crossing lines
maintenen alarms
if fire
knock every door (52)
eldest leg ea crutched
foyer, sleeping birds
 
I hate you - still housing
lefting birchwood wind
 
habitat hospice
we can, at, for else
 
pls, when heart ‘home > queers’
undermines how can I
for care

Raynen is a trans, non-binary and queer-identifying writer, artist, and community worker. They are a settler who lives and works from unceded Gadigal lands. They have a dance practice and a BA in Film, and their writing can be found at, or is forthcoming in, Scum mag, Dancehouse Diary, Demos Journal and Red Room Poetry’s Writing Water: Rain, River, Reef.