The iron moon,

looks differently under hospital windows

shakes down completely sometimes,

touches the eye of the rich drunk-

squatting in the alleyway for a piss

It is not romantic, no. Does not bring

knees to pavement- does not heal

broken skin. Coupling in the bullrushes, the

walk back under the glow of the petrol station lights-

illuminated, all words vacuumed away.

Somewhere, my 15th year plays over

and over again- we comb the back suburbs of

the city for sex. Kiss on the unfinished front lawns of

new estates. The cement on the roads

still cooling, the foreign taste of a tongue

the softness of tracksuit linings. The

fist of sky and the distant music from a

car. Each time it is revisited now, the details


The colour of a t-shirt.
The possums on power lines.
The bending metal of the fence behind us-

Clanging, twisting, breaking-
singing, tuning, melodious smacking lips.

One day we may mine the moon, take pieces

from it. Fill great buckets with ore, keep on

digging, keep on going back to the spots where

we left fragments for later-

return, show others where the pieces lay,

how the wind sounded

how the moonlight was a cheap trick-

the houses now built and full of families-

the unwinding night held by new glass-

lighting up different bodies

in dog-legged, quiet streets.



 Stephanie Powell lives in London. She grew up in Australia. She writes from her attic at home and takes photos sometimes. Her new collection ‘Bone’ will be published by Halas Press in July 2021. Find more poetry on Instagram @theatticpoet