Eulogy for Hasan

            My grief wakes up and phones a small town in Turkey. My grief accepts bribes in fresh fruit. My grief beats its imaginary friend. My grief calls out for food from the concrete factory. My grief owns a Citroën but won’t tell anyone. My grief sends angry letters to dead politicians. My grief scratches the four-letter word tattooed on its knuckles.

            My grief is an ibis scrabbling through trash looking for comparison. My grief is under the credit card in the wallet of a flea beneath its wing. My grief is the bird’s call which remembers Egypt.

            My grief can’t hear me or the waterfall we’re standing next to. It can’t see the cascade soaking the worn volcanic rock. But it can climb down the uneven face, careful in its cheap shoes, drink the clean water that runs over the lowest stones in its cupped hand, plunge in up to the wrist, and flex its digits feeling for angel’s teeth in the sand at the bottom.



Read the rest of Overland 239

If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue

Or subscribe and receive
four brilliant issues for a year


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.

Alan Fyfe writes poetry, prose fiction, and journalism and his work has been featured in a diverse range of publications. He was an inaugural editor of the UWA creative writing journal, Trove, and a prose editor for the American web journal, Unlikely Stories.

More by