Poetry

This poem and artwork were both first published in Lot's Wife Edition 3, 2021. Content warning: sexual assault, violence, mental health, grief. This piece was inspired by the Four Corners coverage of the sexual assault allegations against former Attorney-General, Christian Porter. Kate, the anonymous woman allegedly raped by Porter, was a young woman of sharp intellect and a bright future ahead of her. This seemingly pivotal moment in her adolescence shaped the many years following and defused the light of her highly anticipated future.    I know the way they look at me: as though the hem of my life, 

This poem and artwork were both first published in Lot’s Wife Edition 3, 2021. Content warning: pandemic.   I am sitting in my balcony as I write this. Like the sky, my mind is gloomy.    I’m thinking about those who’ve lost their lives and those who had to watch them leave. Helpless cries and screams that I hear through my screen. It’s hard to believe, because I’m safe and privileged and away from reality.    So, have I experienced a pandemic? I’d say no! Because a yes would be a slap in the face to millions, and I’m not

This piece was first published in Lot's Wife Edition 1, 2021.  Content warning: isolation, lockdown themes.   I speak to my homeworld. But I don’t live there now. It’s just nice to know it exists behind my screens.   I watch you making circles around the sun.  It has no bearing on my artificial schedule up here. I sleep and wake when I can.   What do I look like up here?  I haven’t checked for a long time, but my hair has become bizarre. Every time I take a spacewalk I have to suit up.    No, of course

This piece was first published in Edition 2, 2021.    I've been looking for a feeling I lost her somewhere way up there in the abyss among all the lost balloons I can still see if I close my eyes and ask for  something; exhalations or good faith (or you) somehow  light demands entry into this space you aren't – light carves into my hollows fills out the caves you left behind finds homes between the blurry lines you were so good at drawing; I tried once but my heart got in the way of my fingers along with all

Content warning: mental illness   What do you do when it all unspools? Re-tie? Re-tie? Re-tie?                                       Why?                                                 When there’s no forwards but backwards,   why stick a bandaid on a disintegrating psyche?                                       Why?                                                 Well, we are not just us; we are all of us–        so think, if you can,   of seeing an empty hearth  swept of residual ash,   ready for tonight’s blaze, amid the winter peltings.  

Who am I today? With that crimson lipstick Ready to make an impact Bold and daring    Who am I today? With my black combat boots  Ready to make a scene My identity, unknown    Who am I today? With iridescent earrings  Ready to make a difference  Carrying elegance throughout    Who am I today? In that skin-tight dress Ready for a good time   The centre of attention    Who am I today?  In my oversized hoodie Ready for the waterfall of tears For life is not always full of roses    Who am I today? In my graduation gown 

I sit at the table, lit by dim candles, stern hands around a short black like warming mittens.   I never liked coffee, the taste too bitter, but to show my maturity, I drink it now.   He sits a metre away, glaring at my gestures. We talk and talk about the oceans and seas: my ageing eyes unsheathe sagacity.   His face is earnest and callow, a million hues in the iris, Swirling gently. How spellbinding time is, that invites such marvellous complexities to fuse from innocent wonders.   We cry a little and laugh a lot, strum verses

Content warning: panic attacks, anxiety   My doona weighs me down unevenly, the internal blanket bunched and crumpled – no longer fitting perfectly into the doona cover corners. I lie on my back. Visual static. Grainy roof and walls. My room shifts to the left, then snaps back centred. shifted left centred shifted left centred shifted left centred  My bed sways in a sea of unvacuumed carpet, and my body rocks with every accelerated heartbeat. Breathing exercises that never work. Close my eyes and count to ten.  Breathe in      Two  Breathe out  Fuck.  My burning lungs turn into

This piece was first published in Lot's Wife Edition 5, 2021. Content warning: discussion of chronic pain.   Acceptance a silt lining sediment born without easing the tumultuous question: Why   My acceptance is not come from choosing, but an acquiescence to choicelessness   I echo around my home like a layer of desert dust over flowers odd and still because there is no breeze windows shut we cannot let the air in   Sometimes I shut the windows of myself so as not to let the shrieking out of me. There is little bravery in this, the bearing of

Words by Riya Rajesh   oh, so you want to see colonial rage bloody a page to see a woman, teeth bared, write fire want lyricism and poignant pain too bad today, I can’t today, I am pointed gnitirw ton m’I yadot uoy rof not when people are dying in poverty incarcerated unlawfully a fucking juxtaposition not when we’ve watched and accepted not when champagne sippers sing virtue sweet mouths bubble, boneless and cursive this story was not made for Instagram this is no one’s soap opera this is fear and vitriol remember remember the real people in your posts

NOTE: This piece was intended as ironic, and LW does not sympathise with Joe Exotic's conduct during the Netflix series

And it gets better  or you get better  but you realise that hurt people hurt people   and that’s not the kind of person you want to be.  Oh, you of sunflower heart and starlight soul  only ever equipped to nurture  go, go out and grow others.   Learn that you will flourish whatever the conditions.  Listen to the wise and share what you have gathered so far.  Let the memories keep you warm,  for where there is heat, there is light.    How to glow up // Cassandra Fong  Art by Tanzia Amreen-Haq!