Published in Overland Issue 232 Spring 2018 · Uncategorized Ghosts Kate Middleton Oh / can’t you handle / a ghost? – Alice Notley I can’t think of a time she uses it. The word. Ghost. My difficulty. Believing this. There are ghosts everywhere in her words. She just uses other. Words. Toxins. Hormones. So we talk about the words she does use. About the way they sit within the body. And we talk about present. Talk time. Talk quantum something. Oh. I say. We should talk about the other meaning. You know. Gift. No-one thinks she meant that. Even me. Until I do. This meaning a shadow. As if a momentary feeling of wholeness weren’t constant. Ly shattered. I could offer a reading. Of the poem. Of the bone flute. Drawn from the body. But. But this is not. Possible. Instead. I unwrap the word. Present. Remind me. I say. Remind me what St Augustine said. Time as a hormone. Time as a toxin. Time infects. The body. Time turns the bone to flute. Gifts its hollowed body music. Marrowless. Shaded. for Emily Stewart Image: Mark Nye / flickr Read the rest of Overland 232 If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Kate Middleton Kate Middleton is an Australian writer. She is the author of the collections Fire Season (Giramondo), awarded the Western Australian Premier’s Award for Poetry in 2009, Ephemeral Waters (Giramondo), shortlisted for the NSW Premier’s award in 2014, and Passage (Giramondo, 2017). From 2011–2012, she was the inaugural Sydney City Poet. More by Kate Middleton › 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 21 April 202621 April 2026 · Reviews Pilled to the gills: Ariel Bogle and Cam Wilson’s Conspiracy Nation Cher Tan The question that Conspiracy Nation implicitly raises isn’t why people believe in conspiracy theories but rather why people have stopped trusting official narratives. But what do we do with this knowledge? When we call something a conspiracy theory, what work are we doing? Who benefits from that designation? 17 April 2026 · Friday Fiction These old hands, they are still growing Sam Fisher It was an old house meshed in an unrelenting grid of brick and weatherboard. Its walls still stood stark, red brick. Paint like tender old sagging skin on the timber windows. A bastard of a garden surrounded it, ran up brick wall and concrete path. The lawn, dead that time of year, luminescent in the streetlight. In the center of that void, a sign, Auction.
