By Johanna Sargeant When the tarmac steams and the children stand in the centre of the street with faces up and tongues out and uniforms stuck to rounded bellies, when the road becomes an ochre river, with toddlers stomping and thwomping and lying in the torrent, mothers’ fingers fishing leaves and cicada skins and gecko tails out of tangled hair at bath-time, when oldies on verandahs with cups of black Moccona, yell to be heard as the parched lawn drinks in gluttonous gulps

By Italo Ferrante “pierrot is akin to the immortals, if not of them.” irene mawer i was told not to lead with my teeth / but with my desperation / i wish i could cudgel the shadows of my offenders away / i can only grant mock damages & take pratfalls in the sand / all these men beg to use my throat like a toilet brush / no / i can’t lube my chest / i won’t be their human wipe / god / shower me in greasepaint & hide all hickey bruises / lord / bring me a razor i can handle lik

By Georgia Heart fills my chest and I meet grief. I meet grief the way a dazzling golden sun meets the sky, welcoming the heart-wrenching pain that already knows my bones. I say yes to grief like a prophet meets God, like parched trees drink the rain, like lifetimes wait for a moment. With wide open arms, I say yes to this bountiful teacher, grief. And here, in this wet surrender, I find the roots of my being. Roots steeped in compassion. Roots soaked in the sorrowed la