Published in Overland Issue 208 Spring 2012 · Main Posts The Tap Michelle Gaddes (for Anthony) Gently turned the tap; small boy awe and glee. A withered stick man smoking in his bed, Those long hostile fumes he did not foresee. The toddler, an insect, out of his head. Faucets were declaring outrage and war – The bug had left through a hole in the fence. Spume shot out oily all over the floor His little game did not make any sense. Giants followed, roaring, eyes of battle. And gas like sweat waving flags of death brutally crushed living lungs of the day. And scourge of threat on a waft of breath – then there came slap of skin, a red hot sound, the bug lay wingless on wet battleground. Michelle Gaddes Michelle Gaddes lives on the far south NSW coast. She participated in Australian Poetry’s ‘Cafe Poet’ program early 2012. Her poetry compilation, Pariah, is available from Ginninderra Press. More by Michelle Gaddes › 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 10 November 202311 November 2023 · Subscriberthon 2023 On the final day of Subscriberthon, Overland’s most important members get to have their say Editorial Team BORIS A quick guide to another year of Overland, from your trusty feline, Boris. I liked the ginger cat story, though it made my human cry. I liked the talking cat, too, but I’m definitely in the “not wasting my time learning to talk” camp. But reading is good. And writing is fun, though it’s been challenging […] 1 First published in Overland Issue 228 9 November 20239 November 2023 · Subscriberthon 2023 On the second-last day of Subscriberthon, Overland’s co-chief editor Evelyn Araluen speaks truth to power Editorial Team To my friends and comrades, I’m not sure if there’s language to communicate how this last month has utterly changed me. This time a few weeks ago the busyness and chaos of bricolage arts and academic labour had so efficiently distracted me from my anxiety about the upcoming referendum that I forgot to prepare myself for its inevitable conclusion.
