Wake to the back neighbour’s pool pump, cloud of young mosquitoes in the stairwell, little girls screaming in the pool — the rich man’s voice pulls the cord on a two-stroke tuned soprano.

there anything more fucked than a poem, when all Croajingalong has burnt, inkblot on the map of child heart, that great black banksia we feared as wicked, a thousand-socket resin candelabra,

Who are we? We’re some of the volunteer readers at Overland – you might recognise our names from the editorial pages of the journal. Ordinarily, we have the pleasure of reading a selection of the works submitted to the journal each month before they move onto Claire’s desk for further consideration. We read and carefully consider each piece, but don’t make the final choice of what’s published, and we don’t ordinarily interact with the authors.