Live Encounters Poetry & Writing July 2026
The Secret Work of Pillows, poems by Hemat Malak.
The Secret Work of Pillows
Who else could love that face?
Plumped and dressed for your
arrival I let you lie [pancaked]
on my satin sift the silt out
from your head have you rest
(and snort and dribble) while I mend
and polish your mistakes put them
back as if you’d won before you wake
so you can go again precious little
human head so
fervent so intense
so afraid
My Hair is a Ride on a Harley,
No Helmet
What a pot-holed road we’ve cruised, you
trailing behind me, as we ride into
the wind. People call out, side-eye, look
back. We leave lines of discarded containers—
gels, oils, creams—like breadcrumbs. But
who’d want to return to those flare-filled
days of burnt-out dryers, singed ends and
straight-for-a-second-then-it-rained cries?
There’s no taming you, you furious frizz-ball.
You own the road, whether I like it or not.
Though I’ve felt your patience, idling, till
I would learn to let you be as kinky
as you please. I’ve stood in your warm revv
of approval, reading the backs of bottles,
unmasking all the coded words for
silicone (that you so despise). That year of
chemistry wasn’t wasted as my tongue
rolled over rivals: cyclo-pen-tax-il-ane
amo-di-meth-icone (though ok if
cetri-mon-ium chloride’s in the mix).
Ohh and the proteins that would stun you
rigid, crunch your cuticles till you seized with a
splutter those times I’d dress you like a salad
with mayonnaise, yoghurt—even egg!
Remember when I almost lost you? The stress
from that old boss—her screeches like
rips—and then I wouldn’t listen to your
whimpers on the shower floor? How far we’ve come.
I see the comedy now in those thirsty days of
high humidity when you’d float, all your strands
apart, doing cartwheels with your mouth open
like a sideshow clown.
Oh my cashmere, my silk, my yes-you-can-
touch-it coiled cobra, leave your leather
behind the door now. Come, sleep on this
satin pillow I’ve plumped just for you.
The Gnats of Your Comfort
We used to go
to Flemington markets
every Saturday.
You’d buy boxes
of overripe
fruit and veggies
from all the bargain spots
for our little family
of four.
We’re grown now
and half of us
have moved away
but you still buy boxes.
I don’t know what hunger
you are feeding
but its gnats don’t die
when I swat them.
© Hemat Malak
Hemat Malak lives in Picton, NSW, and works as an accountant in the not-for-profit sector. Born in Egypt, she migrated to Australia with her family in 1969 at the age of three. Following early recognition for her spiritual writing, which received finalist placements in international awards, she returned to poetry after decades away from the form she first loved as a child.
Hemat won the 2025 Bruce Dawe National Poetry Prize and is a Pushcart Prize and Best New Poets nominee. Her poems have been shortlisted for the ACU Prize for Poetry and the Robert Gray Prize and longlisted for the Liquid Amber and Ros Spencer Poetry Prizes. They have appeared widely in Australian and international journals and anthologies, including Rattle, Rochford Street Review, Catchment Literary Journal, Locative Magazine, and publications from 5 Islands Press, One Art, WestWords, and WA Poets.
Her debut poetry collection is forthcoming with 5 Islands Press (2026). Find her at hematmalak.com.