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
change.
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