Published in Overland Issue 238 Autumn 2020 · Poetry / Judith Wright Poetry Prize chinny chin chin Grace Yee when the black curtain drops in a back room at the airport. solo desk in the corner: union jack + southern cross + lipstick holder. white man drags a beat up fairlane, parks so close our mirrors touch. watching him watching me watching him, I feng shui my rear vision. wait for the bricking. the morning’s notes are eagles: take it eeeeeasy. another beer for mister loiter. shut the door. would you like to listen to some ambient music? I prefer the sound of running water, thank you. and the quivering galleries in my sinuses flush. shall we examine the laundry? you’re travelling like you’re carrying triplets. it’s my diet, sir: donuts, fries and four n twenty meat pies (mate). we’ll need a gastroenterologist to verify. sign here. clickety click (add a brick). and what about the little one? alongside probable psychological causes, she’s still breastfed. can’t eat oranges, wheat, sugar, dairy, red meat – what animal proteins are on your person? have you raised swine in high fevers in the last hundred days? sir, in this theatre of permeable membranes, about seventy percent are resistant to smoking, drying, and freezing – you got a stiff neck? I’ve taken up pottery. I like clay on my hands … (especially now that my retinas are detaching). cackles and shania twain. clickety clickety click (brick brick brick). that what the tinted visor’s for? (breaking scarlet): saving for a rhinoplasty, sir, and a small boat to sail up north. better homes up there since 1987, I hear, and the winters blood-warm. your pandas are doing well by the way. wang wang and foo nee. only fertile once a year (& no-one kicks up a stink that they’re behind bars). bears are more delicious in exile, sir. look here – what about these rheumatic joints, and the chinese constellations? we hear they are inflamed, and extremely unequal. we will take turmeric, sir, to the gate of heavenly peace, and for your inflammation, a trip to lhasa and taipei. stroking the hair on his chinny chin chin. he says, it’s council land, technically. clickety clickety clickety click. (brick brick brick brick). ∞ if you fly in on a clear day, you can see them stationed along the coast, crowns firm in the sand, bottoms pink and bare and raised to the salt like porcella rumps. Read the rest of Overland 238 If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four brilliant issues for a year Grace Yee Grace Yee teaches in the writing and literature programs at the University of Melbourne and at Deakin University. She is currently a Creative Fellow at the State Library of Victoria. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Meanjin, Rabbit, and Poetry New Zealand Yearbook. More by Grace Yee › 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 3 November 20233 November 2023 · Poetry our neighbours poem Ender Başkan our neighbours face appears above the fence – hello. our neighbours have a chat with us. our neighbours learn our names. our neighbours become our friends. our neighbours landlord thinks the market is ripe. our neighbours are told to leave. our neighbours try to buy their house at an exorbitant price to keep their kids in the school zone. our neighbours are denied. First published in Overland Issue 228 25 October 202325 October 2023 · Poetry The inhabitants Elif Sezen I died today, among many others, my grandpa died too, and our neighbours, / my best friend, the one with braided hair yes, and our sweet sweet doctors, / our motherly nurses... We heard a blast, then a whoosh of some kind, / and all gone.