Poems
The pots are still dropped and pulled at 4 am,
but no-one fishes near seal rock for weeks, out where the shadows
of sharks and seals are interchangeable.
in the presence of a photo of
your mother, aged twenty three
her hands folded and covered in glitter
her hair long and black
A quiet night in the square,
taxis parked with their side-lights on
and engines cut, drivers
muttering under a fuzzy streetlamp.
The woman’s hands
are tied behind her back –
her hands are not allowed
to speak for her.
The interrogator lays his knife
'The Bluetongue as an Answer to the Anxiety of Reputation', a new poem by Andy Kissane
by Andy Kissane •
Three bluetongues reside in our steep bush garden
of sandstone ledges and the stumps of fallen trees.
One is content to doze under a rock while around her
everyone chatters; one lost the pointy end of its tail
