Published in Overland Issue 226 Autumn 2017 · Uncategorized Switch Omar Sakr my heart is a nude bulb. Or is it my cock? Both muscles are small & hard. Blink often, or at least wear protection, I repeated but you refused. Said light made all days a Pollock painting, spotted colours running each other over. You cupped the fluttering red of it made shadowed animals dance along my ribcage with your hands. I was dizzy beneath the beasts you made of me. Sometimes I let loose language that shot across our skins, erecting our hairs. Other times silence arrived in the mail, it popped out of phones, leaked from fanged sockets. I dribbled it in my sleep. I tried turning everything off, tried to find you in the dark & in the hush see your small muscles burst electric. Image: ‘City ribcage’ / Cydarianna Read the rest of Overland 226 If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Omar Sakr Omar Sakr is the author of two acclaimed poetry collections, These Wild Houses (Cordite, 2017) and The Lost Arabs (UQP, 2019) which won the 2020 Prime Minister’s Literary Award for Poetry. His debut novel, Son of Sin (2022) is out now. More by Omar Sakr › 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 14 February 202514 February 2025 · Poetry 9 to 5 Dave Drayton volunteer to clown / undermine an award / construct to heave / interfere in class / dismantle if civil / disregard no cause / freelance at ennui 1 13 February 202514 February 2025 · Reviews Echoing of the white gaze in Evie Wyld’s The Echoes Karen Wyld Wyld’s creation of voiceless-nameless-lifeless Blak people in The Echoes serves no narrative purpose. This novel is not truth-telling of invasion and occupation, and it does not envision justice for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. Instead of rejecting or confronting lazy literary tropes and colonial-style narratives, the author has erased Blak voices, bodies, histories and futures, adding her own voice to a never-ending echo of white-gazed literature when silence would have been better.
