rabbit
kitten small as a toy
easter bauble bare cold body
stiff in the shade of hydrangeas
pricked ears grey fuzzed fur hardened flesh
kittens
weaning flat-scatter run
low under that old hydrangea
dead baby rabbit gone and more
blue grey feathers
Animal Studies Journal 14(2)
My critical autoethnography questions the discursive practices surrounding the consumption of domesticated junglefowl, birds scientifically known as Gallus domesticus and commonly known as ‘meat’ or chicken. I investigate the degree to which language might matter when it comes to the fate faced …
Animal Studies Journal 14(2). Photo of Sienna taken by Elaine Rollo
Alps wall-papered on readerly consciousness, angst waits with the reader, finding room after exquisitely depicted room. Facts as stories, the reader, like the narrator, drawn into a fascination with almost anything. The knives as complicated as the Swiss. The timing, just so.
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A ‘redshift eclipsing’ slowly revealing the rot of occupation (16). A ‘fermented tongue’ this work, it flicks with exploratory readiness to act, like that tiger snake surprised on the path (30). Here is ‘what rots in the wound’ (75). Venom as antidote.
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Solidarity and strength in this life story, hope feathering: ‘… as the voices coalesced and echoed an almighty cry of ‘Ceasefire Now! Ceasefire Now!’, it was possible to believe that the whole world was contained within that space’ (63). Read, reread, repeat.
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Love here is agile and more than. A book holding more weight than its few pages: reasons for leaving the homelands of Scotland, a divine found in touch and place, and how decisions made by force are resisted by coalescent common ground.
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Lived red-lipped eighties told through sharper eyes, seeing clearly now as well as then. The ins and outs of bright-light St Kilda, the politics of learning in know-it-all Carlton, and most brilliantly, the work daughters do in leaving and becoming their mothers.
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Stevo’s saying it’s a great night for footy. Zavier doesn’t know what that means for sure but the sky’s clear except for those two puffy clouds hovering over the ground. They’re pretty, glowed gold just before the sun dipped behind the skyscrapers.
Mettle, metal, well-met, this poetry weaves threads of love, fight and family with an honesty that connects the soul to the panther’s upheld fist. The openness is a gift: ‘one of the starting points/between you and me/is here on this page’ (3).
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As a white woman living on unceded Eastern Maar territory, an area now commonly known as “Victoria,” reading Emily Brontë’s Victorian novel Wuthering Heights is profoundly unsettling. Brontë’s Wuthering Heights offers evocative renditions of the Yorkshire moors, celebrating the moor’s snow-burdened beauty …
Cover detail from Critical Insights: Wuthering Heights (Salem Press)