Julie Chevalier grew up in the US, but home is Sydney. Her short
stories and poems appear in literary journals including BlueDog,
Griffith Review, Island, Mascara Literary Review, Meanjin, Overland,
Southerly and snorkel. She has Masters in English Literature
(Sydney University) and Writing (UTS). Women of Antiquity (2002)
was joint runner-up for the 2007 Overland Judith Wright Poetry
Prize for New and Emerging Poets. A Cylinder for a Tree Trunk
received the NSW Women Writers' National Short Story Award 2010.

I went for the passionfruit

LA addresses
and single front door keys

she checks her lonely pocket
interrogates its emptiness

November hills
smoke in bronzed windows

actor wannabes lap up
Marina del Sol, Costa del Rey

the spell of Hollywood
broken letters on tarnished stilts

beach reports by e-mail
require a reply by Christmas

should she return to Towradgi?
garage bands at the surf club

plus Nana's sticky date pudding
if she's lucky, passionfruit


the wearing of bird brown tweed
speckled in codes that fold and
unfold the foam of (t)reason unfurls on a chart
a frown passes beyond the gabardine form
there can never be enough paranoia

to discover the split-screen
there must be intrigue
to be aware and swear at them
when cops come chopping deeply into split ends

there must be stealth
to rise and falter depending on the call for in
fearmation for dada above
all the yeast rises highest
when the batons fall


Like all the other blokes walking the beach after work, I'm avoiding the blue bottles. I'm staring at their shapes, picturing their fluted skins wrapping nude prawns. Just as I imagine I'm blowing gow gees for a yum cha, I conjure the spiky head of the new Chinese waiter, the biceps of his hairless arms as he punches the trolley through the swinging door at lunchtime. By mistake I blow penises and scrotums, tease the glass into a thread linking the baubles into a necklace so transparent and glittering I want to lift clusters of sapphire from the high tide line and drape them over his pecs and shoulders, as though the cobalt heaped in seaweed nests were not venomous.


he dares not lift the ripe olive
from the quick martini before he catches the fire
engine to brief island the first thing
he reads while he eats isn't the cartoons he smells
but other times too leafy walks by
le meme chose every ceramic morning
numero ten on mr moh's hardness scale
he can view half the waxing recipes
widow dressing always surrounded by pewter infants
his key largo disposition half roasted
obituary claims his partner is a scaly financier
in an autistic deco flat near cooklin markets
the tired brooks bros neck he rakes the limes in

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