The Cats Don’t Come Around

The rain crackles on the corrugated roof
Like popcorn exploding in the microwave.
A great blossoming of gloom shrouded 
The patio where we would once sit and toke and sway,
Muted occasionally by the evening air traffic.

The doleful Digitaria stretched its fingers
Wide and swarmed our well-neglected lawn.
The old grass barely put up a fight,
Submitting to colonial circumstance
As the lemon tree grew besieged by this conglomerate of hands.


The neighbourhood cats don’t slink by these days.
Once a well-trekked feline thoroughfare,
The sizeable plot sat sullenly, no longer 
Sought after by the curious whiskers 
And slow waving tails of creatures of all shades
Brandishing bejewelled collars and coloured bandanas;
Our fence, no longer the Bifröst bridging suburban worlds,
It’s fresh rotting pine seeming taller than ever.


I let you go knowing the sky would grow darker.
Sometimes all that you can do
Is shut your mouth and let the tide pull out
As quickly as it had moved in,
Brandishing the ones we can’t bear to lose.

You were almost a sister but that doesn’t sound quite right does it?
Less than kin but more than kind.
I remember every silence.
The awkward pregnant pauses
And the soft newborn sighs.
With some people the gaps between words seem to hold the most value
And I could feel our minds coalescing and

We just seemed to know.

– sam dover


Back when our hearts had curfews
We’d catch them sneaking in,
Tell them to be careful out late wandering.
It’s no use.
They must bruise to grow their arteries,

Must come home shattered
As we nurse them back to full capacity;
Praying that they will land on their feet,
Whether or not it
Sucks the last air from me –

And you, my first co-parent,
We watched from park bench grandstands
As the children fraternised:
Pushed each other in the sandpit
Helped each other up the slide.

You and I glanced over hopelessly,
Caught in a proxy war
With our two rabid beasts
Tearing us apart
And bandaging our grief.

– sam dover


an expansive succession of months,

stillness and volcanic movement

a blood-bathed hacksaw 

taken to the hedgerows of my life

unfinished in its infinite divisions

and I never could wrap my head around calculus 

the ungraspable whole

so I draw focus to the minutiae:

rain pooling in the open palms of nasturtium;

the afternoon sun in the bathroom gilding the edge of her pale, impossibly fragile shoulder blades;

the sea foam like an ancient lace collar as we bury our feet, arms heavy with hot paper-wrapped chips and fish 

replanted, a graft of foreign skin

my toes are caked in soil,

a grief muddies the hem of my dress 

I’m gasping at my year and how far we’ve come

to be only two streets over

But here you are, 

always coming home 

when you say 

you will

our mother, burning

the night is still

the sun,

an overripe persimmon

descends through a shroud

five hundred cockatoos take flight

an evening squall:

our warning

from the south

wind like a melting glacier,

an avalanche through a chasm

takes our breath away

we hold our hands to our faces,

stare into the rising cloud

a dark fungus blooming

ash in our hair,

upon eyelashes

a single black leaf

floats onto my arm

Room for Rent;

Here for a good time, perhaps not a long time;
Sometimes our gold years just don’t quite align.

One man’s beginning is another woman’s aftermath;
The scythe of time tearing wheat from the chaff.

The shuttle carries my thread across your weaving;
We all show love through different ways of leaving.

Our hearts have a limited capacity, apparently;
Yours seemed filled with a dozen distant histories.

An angry seaside infant with sand slipping between;
I can’t keep the cork sealed on champagne dreams.


That Damned Couch.

Your couch never felt so comforting, I thought
While you were mumbling something
About the perfect Way of scrambling
Some nice fluffy eggs, and I was stretching over
The arm of your sofa, the one
With the manly musky odour that borders
On unbearable, but I bear it because I care for you.

So I reached over the drool and fiddled
With the litter of your torn-open disposable cameras,
Trying to summon a flash that finally finds me:
It blinds me and sends me back

To when I crawled up to your doorstep fresh
Off the plane, impossibly ashamed with a boiled egg
Just about the size of my brain, listening
To Julia Jacklin’s ‘Comfort’ in a not-fully-captioned crisis.
But I knew you would never make me dwell upon my vices
Or atone for all my sins – you waited at the doorstep,
Promptly welcomed me in.

There was Callum in his corner and that old furry caterpillar
Couch of course, summoning its well-worn vagabond inhabitant.
I asked you if you thought I should shave off this newfound
Entanglement, but you just smiled and told me that:

“A naked chin is like a half-formed grin:
Awkward and hesitant,”

Or maybe you didn’t,
But that’s what I felt in your yeah-nah-yeah she’ll-be-right
Affectation – the cement that soothes all abrasions.

For at the core of what we are, beyond aesthetic differences
And all the fermentation, we’re not far
From the jars you hide on the bottom shelves of the basement,
Each sour note requires patience, and each new anaerobic arrival
A celebration.

So thank you. Thank you for lending
A rope down the well, for taking me dancing
Or diving into that salty brew when you didn’t need to.

You’ve always made me smile despite yourself,
Despite your own hurting.
But please know you never have to do that alone:
I love you like a brother and on your couch I’m home.

Empathy in the Face of…

The only actions that seem to carry any value in the face of death are those that reduce the suffering of our fellow persons and those generations who are still to come. How many times have I walked roads paved over and over by the long-dead generous of spirit?

Nature is an unfathomable spectacle, but it is also unimaginably cruel and unconcerned with the matter of suffering. Perhaps the more we attempt to transcend these machinations the more heartbroken we become at our limitations and, ultimately, the cosmic indifference our surroundings hold for these pursuits.

I truly believe that – at our core – our species are meaning-makers, sowing seeds in barren ground, crafting castles out of grains of sand, and searching for justice in a seemingly random cacophony. I think this perpetual dissatisfaction with the natural laws, social hierarchies and the prevalence of pain is perhaps our most arrogant of qualities but, paired with our equally powerful impulse to find significance (beyond any evolutionary purpose) in the spiritual value of ethics and morality, provides us with a uniquely empathetic ego.

This can be found in our ability to see civilisation, community and collective growth in the collaborative efforts of our scattered atoms or simply our capacity to find love in a stranger’s face. We feel pain so we can look to the person next to us, see certain reflections of ourselves and say:

“Excuse me sir/madam/other, I don’t mean to cause alarm but, if you’re anything like me, could you spare a second to hold me close. Please, help me understand, what is the meaning of this enduring struggle?”

Now, how successful this interaction is with those who we don’t, on occasion, share a mattress or a bloodline with is yet to be verified. However, I think we can all recall an experience of infinite value in that connection and understanding and I believe it’s one of polite society’s biggest errors to reserve this sense of communion and physical affirmation to lovers, family, and religious groups.

We’re all trying to grapple with the throes of pain and the sometimes-more-jarring interludes of pure unfettered happiness. But we are stuck with a half-built puzzle, refusing to share the pieces with almost all of our fellow puzzlers, often hoping to find all remaining pieces in the box of just one other.

We were born half-formed and will depart the same if we don’t learn the power of intimate and compassionate empathy. To be human is to be trapped in a perpetual bad date with the world around us, lost in the incongruence between our needs for intimacy or purpose and a universe that simply does not share the same values. All we can do is listen to each other, share when appropriate and help move our world accordingly.

Within these universalist statements there is, of course, the potential for flattening or oversimplifying the diverse variety of experiences and perspectives of those positioned along different sociological intersections. After all, the root of many corrupt and unethical socio-political structures started with an idea (or illusion) of unity and equality: “We hold these truths to be self-evident…”

Modern capitalism can be seen as one of these many dangerous misunderstandings of human need that uses a premise of “human-nature” and “empathy” to homogenize and hierarchize the masses according to one dominant perspective.

This superficial treatment of empathy and “sameness” as a tool to obscure the reality of an uneven playing field or to justify economic inequality is a fundamental betrayal to this communion of being. Real empathy means looking past the bounds of that elitist perspective – putting all of our laws, industry and economy to one side – and truly engaging with those who have fallen through the cracks and whose pain is unheard, unacknowledged, and unacted upon. Only then can we begin to approach the superstructures that sprout around us.

When a large portion of a crop is found to be poisoned, the farmer must re-engage with the needs of the soil before she can sow the seeds of a truly fruitful harvest. I believe this to be true with empathy. Empathy is the soil through which all ideas and connections prosper. If we remain socially-distanced in not just a physical sense but an emotional and spiritual sense, I think we will begin to see both an unravelling of our social lives as well as a crumbling of the castles we’ve built, hand-in-hand, with those precious humans that we’ve all taken for granted.

Hold those who need to be held and listen to those you might be inclined to avoid. They might get the wrong message and they might make you mad but, at a minimum, you’ll get in touch with their humanity and – I believe – a small piece of your own.


Grandparents. Who knew I would miss them so much – that I would yearn for that wrinkled touch? I look at him and I see a shadow of a man and it scares me. He closed himself from the world so I closed myself from him.

When I see him I see me, or at least a possibility that frightens me. So I turn my back until he fades from concern until I may no longer have the chance to return. Then I will sit throwing stones, cursing at a ripple in my reflection. I’m upset with who I’ve become so I use him as my scapegoat, a wicker portrait of “well at least I’m not…”. I run down the barrel of my throat, looking over my shoulder and tripping into a familiar rut.

I wonder what age he was when that switch flicked in his mind when he started putting up fences and saying: “ok, that’s all well and good but let me alone to cultivate my pasture here and you carry on with your business, it’s none of mine.” Eventually all the best kept gardens turn to jungles you can’t quite peek outside of, and the foreign begins to feel dangerous. You’ve felt safe here for so long so why would you want to leave? Things make sense. Even if it’s a dream why roll over and wake yourself when you could stay blissfully eating of the fruits of your hard-earned labour?

Look at your grandson so filled with conflicting ideas; a blind and endless outrage pouring out of him and you pity the fool who flails in the mystery. Who falls like the rain and rises with the sun, who knows not of pain, what it’s like to lose someone that breathed and defined with each stroke of her palm. She made you wilt, made you shine, told you that this garden was Eden and even if one day you part she’ll leave herself rooted deep in your dog-toothed heart.

You can’t change because to believe that this is not enough feels like spitting in her face. Her face that fell limp in your arms when the chill slowly rose from her toes to her cheeks. When closing your eyes that night felt like a cruel curtain call, shaking you awake alone and confused for the first time in what seems many many lifetimes. You felt helpless as a child but you no longer had those who would comfort you, pat your back and teach you of the ways of the world.

Something felt different. Your children look at you strangely now, seeming to estimate how long you’ve got left and looking with pity when they attempt to assess the damages non-verbally. You mustn’t be a burden, you must keep moving, keep your head down and cause no undue strife: you’ve had a nice life after all. Let’s just sit down, have a beer and put her in autopilot.

Think of this as an epilogue, no expectations, no disappointments or treasure troves. Just the surety of the rain and the sun and the daily syndicated paper that speaks your language and tells you what you already understand. Pay no mind to the ravings of the young. They’ll learn one day, after all this fighting, how it feels to truly die to the world and clutch their pearls as if they’re the last marbles left. Rolling and recategorizing memories just to see how they sit. You reach out to me and you offer me one, but I hesitate because it’s not the truth that I asked for and not the man I wanted to deliver it. You’re an archive, a ghost, an auto-didactic nightmare for the young but you’re here for a few more days and I should step back, and learn to let you brighten one.

This Digital Weight

Long before the currently mandated separation, I felt familiar with this distance. As a child of the internet age, I often recall episodes from my past that never entirely happened — at least not in the physical world. Moments of real connection and emotional substance neutered by pale colour palettes and sterile displays. Now that my COVID-19 social world is made up of these isolated interactions, my friendships feel lonely, like phantom pain.  As we step further and further into this social distancing you might find yourself haunted by the same ghosts. If you’re sensing the idealistic promises of social media starting to erode as loneliness seeps in, this piece is for you.


But, how are we capable of this strange dis[connection]? After all, is social media not the saving grace of humanity, touting itself as an extension of — if not a replacement for — traditional means of communication? As the virus holds us and our loved ones hostage, the warnings of the old-guard that “long-distance never works” and “they’re not worth emotionally investing in” are beginning to seem like ancient commandments.


The idea that ‘real connection’ must be bound to two sets of matching x-y coordinates was already beginning to seem alien. For this is the new limitless social pool, bound only by time zones and bandwidth allowances. Now, with the COVID-19 crisis, our online infrastructure is facing its biggest test thus far: can it truly be an effective substitute for face-to-face connection?


I feel because of my age and Gen-Z status, it’s almost sacrilege to say this, but: of course not. I think this is largely user error, as our ancient monkey brains require something more substantive than this digital format. Minds that were trained to read reality through the five primary senses have had its stimulus whittled down to just one or two. We crave this connection so badly we’ll even invent our own realities based on the most unassuming of instant messaging prompts. Social media offers nothing but empty information without users. It gives us a platform to exert the full depths of our imaginations and to project our hearts and dreams onto its pale landscapes.


We try our best to fill these landscapes with the full sensory spectrum. Our minds, the great scavenger-thieves that they are, have cobbled together a catalogue of images, smells, even tastes through archives of previous occurrences, first-hand observations, novels, and perhaps — most importantly — the mass-media library of the internet. We draw from all of these and, suddenly, a conversation mediated through apps on a phone or computer monitor suddenly becomes embodied in our mind, alive with colours, smells, and flavours.


When we turn that phone off or shut that laptop, we’re reminded that — no matter the internal tinkering and complex emotional arithmetic — we are just two individuals lost in the complex machinery, fishing for whatever interpretation feels the most appealing. Every conversation is a great globe-spanning endeavour involving distant, orbital satellites, cell-phone towers, and intricate communication networks filtered through a chic interface to simulate a closed, private space.


Besides, while video calls and chat rooms feel personal and private, these platforms (and our data) should not be mistaken for our property. Not only are social media platforms the arbiter of communication, they have now become the gatekeepers of our memories. First confessions of love, reconnecting with old friends, and the rekindling of flames all birthed from 1’s and 0’s. I am part of a small group — growing larger each day — of those whose foundational memories have taken place in offshore accounts. Human connection, corporatized and harvested for advertisement revenue, inflating the commas of awkward tech billionaires. The threat of a data wipe that takes out a decade’s worth of digital investment has me perpetually petrified. I can’t log out from that.


So, here we are, making innumerable disembodied memories with friends, coworkers, and peers right in our bedrooms. Perhaps, this crisis and these new forms of communication and connection only help to illustrate how alone we are with our thoughts and feelings, no matter the degrees of separation. Instead of arriving home after a night out, we finish our call, take off our headphones, and crawl into bed. A room once filled with life, conversation, and tired jokes from old friends, now nearly empty — except for an impression.


Holding familiar faces in our hearts in the dark, they’re hazy sketches at best. We do the routine of checking in with all of the social threads, quantify online feedback, post the Instagram story chain-mails, and pray, pray, pray for a time when we can stop pretending that this is enough. That someday soon we can see, feel, or simply breathe in the company of our species without this digital weight.

Jesus Came to My Birthday Party

Salty rims and too-warm wine

it took me two minutes to do my makeup in the rear vision mirror

hands trembling like stuck cicadas

as they slide closer to my knees

i’m so late,


Unshackled, undone

the nail in the coffin of my aborted marriage

a life in ruins

and I’m high on adrenaline

how far can I take this?

Pour me another,

and I’m losing grip

on the mess I’ve left,

the screaming mouths

a broken home, gasping bed sheets

that were so recently filled

spilling with our familial warmth

too warm, too much flesh

breeding maggots in the road kill of our silences

Tell me I’m pretty

let your hands run

in the kaleidoscopic claustrophobia

of this celebration hall

Here is my youth

in the flat of my palm

the stretch of my skin towards your shoes

Floating, free

I’m sea-green and sinking

Can you see the way

the floodlights catch ahold of every swollen drop,

the underside of every gum leaf

silver and shivering

I’ve lost it all,

but I’m finding you in every drag

Unencumbered, skyward

the wet grass

soaking into my underwear

Is it your arms I can see extended towards me?

your chest

a sun-warmed rock

your elbows sturdy

as I

let go