Published in Overland Issue 242 Autumn 2021 · Poetry a brief story about hands Debbie Lim I woke to find my hands humming in the dark hands I said what have you done? where did you creep? what did you plunder? my hands did not answer simply lay upon the sheets still humming dreaming perhaps of a great hand-shaped cloud travelling steadily onwards deep into the night hands I cried what terrible thing have you what forbidden and was afraid to switch on the light not knowing if I would find my hands blackened with bees or breathing some cold song or worse no longer even mine Read the rest of Overland 242 If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four brilliant issues for a year Debbie Lim Debbie Lim lives in Sydney. Her poems have appeared regularly in the Best Australian Poems series (Black Inc.) and various anthologies including Contemporary Asian Australian Poets (Puncher & Wattmann). Her chapbook is Beastly Eye (Vagabond Press). More by Debbie Lim › 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 8 September 202312 September 2023 · Poetry Poetry | Games Heather Taylor-Johnson Days pinch and lately I’ve noticed every time I look in the mirror I’m squinting—maybe it’s a grimace. Without trying I’ve mastered the façade of a Besser block threatened by a mallet, by which I mean maybe the world won’t kill me but it’ll definitely hurt and I’ve got to be ready. First published in Overland Issue 228 31 August 20236 September 2023 · Poetry Verbing the apocalypse: Alison Croggon’s Rilke Josie/Jocelyn Suzanne ‘This again?’ and ‘why now? Why not years ago?’ are the two questions raised in each new translation of a non-English piece of Western Canon. There’s an understanding—of course a poetic cycle like the Duino Elegies is incomplete in English, there are endless new readings—and a simultaneous sense of wounded pride/suspicion: what was missing the last time around? What were you concealing from me? What are you concealing now?
