Published in Overland Issue 243 Winter 2021 · Poetry The dead sea Gayelene Carbis We went to the Dead Sea but I didn’t bring my bathers so I couldn’t go in. I had to watch on the shore, I didn’t know then I’d never be back. I was young. I thought rivers and seas and skies lasted forever. I thought they’d wait for me. I thought I could build bridges back to anything, anywhere. Anyone. I remember my Egyptian fiance’s mother had a checkered cloth on the table. It reminded me of my mother’s back home in Melbourne. But here, we were eating pigeon, it had been roasted. My mother’s roasts were chicken or lamb or pork and she always saved me the crackling. Here we were in Hurghada, we were in Cairo, we went to Alexandria. My mother stayed home. My mother never went anywhere. She’s still never been on a plane. My mother’s life fills me with sadness. I thought I had time to fill it with things – Europe, or an island, somewhere, anywhere. I didn’t know, I didn’t know, what life had in store for us. Read the rest of Overland 243 If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four brilliant issues for a year Gayelene Carbis Gayelene Carbis is an award-winning Australian/Irish/Cornish/Chinese writer of poetry, prose and plays. Her first book of poetry Anecdotal Evidence (Five Islands Press) was awarded Finalist in the 2019 International Book Awards for Poetry. Recent awards/shortlistings include: first prize in the My Brother Jack Poetry Award; finalist in the Bruce Dawe Poetry Prize; and finalist in the Woorilla Poetry Awards (Commended). Gayelene teaches Creative Writing at universities and Sandybeach; English/EAL at ACU; and is a Poet-in-Residence in schools. More by Gayelene Carbis › 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?