Published in Overland Issue 205 Summer 2011 Uncategorized One February or July DJ Huppatz Calling out in an underground parking garage in Ottawa or Montreal, but I tell you no-one was lost. At least I wasn’t. Then how was it we ended up on St Kilda beach later that morning, a gypsy bar that afternoon, while all the disenchanted world worked? “You can fly you know”. The gulls blinked – they’re used to such profundity and listened attentively. We gorged on sunlight impounded in Indonesian mangos as the ocean sculpted a sign legible only to two. But when the little one said roll over, it was hard to recall when we were young and no-one followed those tight silk pants but my hands. The temples are waiting, let them. I could clean the bathroom but there’s no sense setting the record straight. You know, it’s a long way to buy a decent key lime pie, we should just make one here. And a couple of mojitos. DJ Huppatz D J Huppatz is a Melbourne-based writer who has had poetry published recently in VLAK 2 (2011) and Black Inc.’s The Best Australian Poems 2011. More by DJ Huppatz 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 First published in Overland Issue 228 25 November 202225 November 2022 Poetry Poetry | Summer animal Jini Maxwell This summer I can feel myself turning back into an animal. I wake up early and seek out trees, walking through the expansive quiet of the park until the heat starts feeling sharp on my skin. I leave the blinds closed, so when I return home the building is dark and familiar, and as I shut the door behind me I feel a satisfaction I can only describe as territorial. First published in Overland Issue 228 24 November 202225 November 2022 Politics ‘Sir, please get me the Manager’: Brazil before and after Bolsonaro Guido Melo By then, although young in age, I already knew about those rituals of humiliation and how they were part of my Black family's lives. I also knew that surviving those daily interactions required putting my head down and following the instructions received with no hesitation. I must have had ‘the talk ‘with my parents when I was eight or nine. Life was just like that. Being Black in Brazil means living in a war. No one should ever go to war underprepared.