Poetry

They cannot say their thoughts
(or, If Cohen sang Oodgeroo)

Dance me to the rhythm of a language (I don’t speak)
’Neath sapphire-misted mountains they might kill (ya)
Breathe out brokin holy in this land of (rainbow peaks)
Every line she speaks is hallelujah.

Get the latest essay, memoir, reportage, fiction, poetry and more.

Subscribe to Griffith Review or purchase single editions here.

Griffith Review