Dusk upon a wood porch in a migrant hostel

by Peter Davis the hypotenuse of my father thinking with a pigeon perched upon his head the angled neck of a humble smiling man I love him and I’m still young enough to tell him so often we are a family in this Migrant Hostel the pigeon and its grassy songs of innocence dad so

On arctic foxes and snow owls

Ann Shenfield If this were a perfect world then the arctic fox would eat berries and not hunt baby snow owls But in this lesser place where snowy owlets feed on goslings and songbirds There are those who say that animals are much like us but that they are pure emotion Except isn’t everything analogous

How autism may present in adult female siblings

Esther Ottaway Esther Ottaway is an award-winning and widely published poet. Her work was shortlisted in the Montreal International and Bridport Poetry Prizes in 2020. Her new collection is Intimate, Low-voiced, Delicate Things (Puncher & Wattmann), and she is writing a collection about the experiences of women and girls on the autism spectrum, titled She

Tree Change

Jen Webb Jen Webb is Distinguished Professor of Creative Practice at the University of  Canberra, and co-editor of the literary journal Meniscus. She researches and writes about suffering and resilience. Her most recent poetry collections are Moving Targets (Recent Work Press, 2018), and Flight Mode (with Shé Hawke; Recent Work Press 2020).

In Covid Enrobing – for Shadows

Denise Antaw Mirror’d in tarnished mercury speckle another wintery Covid weekend. She no longer listens for the sound of latch-lift at her gate; since Covid’s time-lines set in place mean the rest of her own Time-Line must wait. Another day for old photos but first, I must dress She chooses the crushed-velvet skirt pleased with

Self Portrait, February 2020

KA Nelson dedicated to the kookaburra Refugee from bushfire, smoke and storm— will mincemeat do? Sorry for your loss of habitat. Thanks for dropping in. I don’t blame you for not eating from my open hand. On this day of absences, will you laugh for a woman thinking of the dead? No matter, old love.

A year with Lumi

Sianna Madigan After 3 AM paralysis, peristalsis of the brain force-feeding horror to grasping anxieties, I decide to get a dog. But when I hold his soft body— tangled legs wrestling cold hands— sharp-hooked thoughts scramble superimposing sadness, warning how easily fragile bones break, so I can love only fearfully. Still— time passes, and all

Remnants

Margaret Zanardo I lug it around like some battered suitcase not fully closed overweight bulging with hoarded maybe’s and memories discarded scraps stuffed tight within and those scraggly bits I can’t force inside escaping from the edges they’re the bits left over from your love, the bits I still can’t manage to unpack and store

Clear Daylight

Katherine FitzHywel The blue sky is flat The courtyard leaves are still Bird calls and sirens are distant I wonder how last night existed when I was trapped in my ribcage spitting suspicions and leaking insecurities The echoes are making me uneasy and hesitant to move Crickets and construction The cat welcomes the sun turning

The Master

Michelle M. Mead The world’s best Dictators, Drill sergeants, Organizers, Have nothing on you, My diminutive ruler, Demanding of me, Only the highest expectations, Not a moment’s slack, I’ve seen that Whip’s flick, That mouth, Oh, that yelling mouth, If it wasn’t So darn CUTE, So furry and sweet, Releasing its meows Of frustration, I