Published in Overland Issue 241 Summer 2020 Poetry the rose Monique Lyle He held up her portrait, close, noticing things about flesh, then looked away at the mountains and through the green window. Then he looked, a third time, into his mind. He saw that the willow was drowning and that blue flowers floated around the place. She’d been crying over the dead bird and the frame of the portrait now showed green. The cage was rusted and green. Her dress had fallen from her shoulder (it was a waste to break the other half of the mirror) and with her face forlorn he wanted to go up. He thought he’d put his cheek on her naked shoulder but was pricked by thorns. He leaned in. The flowers were blue budgies floating and softly alighting. There was flutter and splash, splash and flutter. The air had feathers and petals in it. The air was crimson and down. He saw her close the window and drag the frame through the soot on the floor. The rose was dark and he knew that it was dying. Read the rest of Overland 241 If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four brilliant issues for a year Monique Lyle Monique Lyle is a writer and improviser. She is currently completing a PhD with the Writing and Research Centre at Western Sydney University. Recently her work has appeared in Flash Cove, Otoliths and Dance Research. More by Monique Lyle 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 4 First published in Overland Issue 228 1 February 20233 February 2023 Reviews This is where the rat bastard poem comes in Dan Hogan Rats will be found wherever nonsense presented as sense becomes the authority. Such is the cornerstone of anything organised along lines of capital: bureaucracies, workplace hierarchies, real estate, aspiration culture, institutions, ruling class artifice, governments, etcetera. Wherever there is capital there are rats—hoarding creatures, capital’s henchmen. First published in Overland Issue 228 16 December 202225 January 2023 Friday Poetry Poetry | Wombats shit candy Michael Farrell To avoid treading on a snake, I stepped on a land mine. Did this really happen, in my dream? No. Is it a fiction, then? Yes and no. The time I spend looking for socks is insignificant: lie, irony, or philosophy? Wombats shit candy. Joke – hallucination? This is in fact a truth claim. My poems: litanies of truth claims.