Published in Overland Issue 233 Summer 2018 · Uncategorized Reserve Corey Wakeling From where we stood, careening quiet. The knives of shepherds slit the lambs. Later, the huge apparatus. When. When but before us, another district militarised in boredom, another hotplate oiled for serfdom; handles on everything near. City, your embrace is untold, and you are no Westminster Bridge. After all, it is still a twenty-first century. Still paper and violence. One poppy in the sidewalk mud adoring everybody. The lunar scar makes him reluctant to smile, especially during glacial melt. Wow – put a barrier between me and flare. Port Island, destination and warm home, discloses the ghosts of ferry dead in dither. The snow spangles with each touch. Sanctimony of the Reserve Bank announces its amazed press conference. Bank’s warning repeats last quarter’s: ‘the insistent voice cuts the long grass’. Can radiation help. Can Canberra. Image: Christopher A Dominic / flickr Read the rest of Overland 233 If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Corey Wakeling Corey Wakeling is a writer, scholar, and translator living in Tokyo. In 2013, he was granted a PhD in English and theatre studies at the University of Melbourne. Corey has lived in Japan since 2015, currently working as an associate professor of English literature at Aoyama Gakuin University. His most recent poetry collection, Uncle of Cats, appears with Cordite in 2024. More by Corey Wakeling › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 1 6 November 2026 · Friday Fiction Headland Harry Goddard He must have still been sore. I could tell from the winces he made as he scooted down the trail. Some unspoken agreement of not hitting other people’s children — and the circumstances of me not being that type of kid — spared me from the same punishment. I was taken to my parents who agreed I would have to work off the damages, and I must have mowed the lawn once, or cleaned the family car. 4 November 2026 · Film MIFF, Minotaur and the politics of maternal reception Alicia Byrnes Maternal labour is, in the terms I’ve set out here, not labour at all. Noisy, unfocused, mobile, perhaps even sleepy — it is an affront to arthouse film viewing and therefore unserious.
