Published in Overland Issue 227 Winter 2017 · Uncategorized First home bile Allison Gallagher i am providing islands for a local land baron kept warm at night by investment properties dreaming of electric deeds the walls are not built to withstand harsh weather so i wrap myself in rental applications to prepare for the winter ahead accessorising with vestigial asbestoses herded into all these arbitrary divisions i watch your blood ache for something less ephemeral but oh, our bodies ground to dust by negative gears salaries having mostly sentimental value at this point i wonder what will become of the monoliths left towering over gentrified paradise these ultra-chic burial grounds now overpopulated by millennial skeletons crying silently into their superannuations Image: Homehome / Евгений макаров Read the rest of Overland 227 If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Allison Gallagher Allison Gallagher is a writer from Sydney. Their debut chapbook is Parenthetical Bodies (Subbed In, 2017). Writing has appeared in Overland, Potluck, Scum Mag and Kill Your Darlings, among others. They also sing and play bass in the band Sports Bra. More by Allison Gallagher › 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 12 May 202414 May 2024 · Cartoons “Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage”: the anti-war meaning of Mother’s Day Sam Wallman What we now call Mother's Day was born of the anti-war movement. In 1870, Julia Ward Howe called for an annual 'Mother's Peace Day': "Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caress and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn what we have been able to teach them..." 10 May 202410 May 2024 · Friday Poetry Disorientation John Kinsella A strong south-westerly cuts through the shutters and wakes me out of synch. Disorientated, I try to start a different story but have to secure the window. I am harried and haunted by the horrors of Du Pont. I cannot get away from them whispering at each node of modernity. Where will I arrive after this?