Zenobia Frost

Zenobia Frost

About Zenobia Frost

Zenobia Frost is a writer from Brisbane, Australia. Her poetry and nonfiction have appeared in Overland, Cordite, The Lifted Brow, Scum, ARC, Woolf Pack, and in the recent Hunter Anthology of Contemporary Feminist Poetry. Her book, Salt and Bone, is available from Walleah Press.


Chivalry’s Not Dead (It’s Just Been Criminalised)

Text sourced from Miranda Devine’s Daily Telegraph column of the same name (16/12/2017), and its comment thread. Whole poems used to be written in praise of Miranda Devine. But feminism changed all that. Chivalry isn’t dead, it’s just late to …

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Reality On-demand

1. Demo Day Jo Gaines walks right into me and takes stock. Good bones, y’all – I love this one. So much potential. Knuckle through a wall or two and fill me up with light, hem back the big trees …

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Blueprint No. 1: Siemon St.

The only place I ever lived alone, but slept myself out of the memory. My room crammed with king-frame more manspread than bed- spread – creamy linen sheets but no quilt. The bed clothed entirely in light. The window doubled …

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Stations and a Crossing

No one checks your ticket. Outside the train, whales arch across noise and blue static. Take off sodden sneakers, socks. Get comfy. You didn’t bring a book. Watch your window. Split lightning flashes / clouds seeded with bats over slurred …

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Nana’s ghosts gnawed through her walls. Mum and aunts scale bow-legged ladders, scrape paper, bury leaves of it in pilling carpet. Autumnal crunch. Mum makes Nana reinscribe her living room with colours Grandad never would have chosen. We scrawl on …

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Arc 75: The Arc-Cordite Poetry Special Issue

Cover art by Ian Friend My plumbing? Not exactly. But, well, after 14 months in the planning, making, mulling, and editing, it’s finally here: Arc Poetry Magazine 75: The Arc-Cordite Poetry Special Issue. Shane Rhodes and I (Kent MacCarter) co-wrote …

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1. In a mythical demountable we are students of the sword, cotton-gloved rabbits, a few aeons late to taste the blade’s full thrust. Creeping green curdles bronze, suckles the edges off. It sleeps in its labelled, cardboard coffin – one …

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An Ode

A friend requests an ode to her vulva, less half-serious than the organ itself, insistent in humour insistent distress in a hothouse summer of self-fulfilled prophecy. It is the friend-of-a-friend you discuss and never meet – a troubled loveliness, no …

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In Whiskey Gully

Miromiro speaks he sounds her out scoutishly—a collector           Do    you    speak  Tomtit? an unremembered house shingled—crisscrossing green           it could rain and take a year for the forest to sup to its roots from the flat ramble up whiskey-reeling paths Miromiro circles she does …

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never believe the stone angels listen closely to raven and possum at night, ask the moon for permission walk backwards past ivy-grown plots do not cross running water do not dig in the early hours do not stand atop gravestones …

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