Published in Overland Issue 225 Summer 2016 Uncategorized Egg tempera Charlotte Guest A grinding in your stomach, deeply felt, beneath the fleshy dunes your mother said would have been considered beautiful in the late 1400s. You rise and fall with the bars on your lover’s stereo. He hitches your wool skirt and ignores the hot tears that tour your face and make you think of your Renaissance sisters, stroked into existence. We girls, we bleeding, breathless girls, taking dumb solace in the fact our bodies have a long history, are politically charged, and would’ve been considered beautiful in the late 1400s. When it’s over you roll onto your stomach, inspect yourself with a period eye, and look to the site marked by tepid blots. Image: ‘Stereo’ / flickr Read the rest of Overland 225 If you liked this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Charlotte Guest Charlotte Guest is a writer and publishing officer at UWA Publishing. Her debut collection Soap is due out in late 2017. More by Charlotte Guest 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 28 November 202229 November 2022 Film Noirvember at the movies: on the pleasures of personal curation Eloise Ross Watching noir all month, in its many transcontinental variants from the past eighty-odd years, really is a fantastic thing to do. I’m finding connections between films that aren’t obvious, or that might not appear to me without the benefit of such programming and framing. First published in Overland Issue 228 25 November 202228 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.