Content Warnings (click to reveal)
Discussed: animal death
Rescue
That gait makes me think of all the rabbits she’s killed, true huntress,
tonight, her toothless black and pink muzzle-mouth opens
and I see devastation for small animals. But I’ve only ever loved things that
awe and frighten me. I draw comfort from her insistence to be at my side,
to lift her head, to have me softly curl an ear between two fingers,
to remind her I am here, and we are not yet half-way. She pulses
through light pollution, dusty rain and dusk, anytime I gather the lead, house
keys and we go in silence, stepping beneath a narthex we can’t see, such
relief when we don’t have to talk. I speak, tap, tap, only my palm slaps my thigh
this way, not that, she buries her head to inhale whatever is decaying
in grass while I wait.
Dog, the vet tells us your heart will slow until it beats like stone, but still
every muscle is a machine, the hills and ditches of your sleekness hold
a promise of more. Within, your wolf, a dormant, dangerous creature,
still faster than my feet, snuffling for loose meat in shadow, liquid against
the stillness of cars. Never passive in my ownership, always wanting
something in return – oh, how could I ever own you?
The Irish Sea
beside it, unbeautiful town beach, rotting stakes like whale-
bone, no –
it was leftover pier, yes and a picture of me
as young woman,
hatless,
squinting on molten silver, pans
of wet sand, shimmering, i didn’t see the razor clam until
i stepped on it, cut my foot, no, it was more of a graze
rejoined by salt
if I think about it, there was too much longing, not enough
sex,
if I think about it, no, not enough
in the photo i eat my own hair, strands are stuck to the
moist ribbon of my lip,
or my lips are dry
yes it was july, maybe or august, by september
i was back in london, the cut or graze repaired
i stood by the open car boot and hauled my bathers
up under a towel
later i sponged sand from my feet with a rag
yes, the tide was out, and everything shone
*
butter sweetens the toast, just plain,
it’s a simple pleasure,
i’m over the sink, soap still on my fingers, dishes to wash,
floor to mop,
she is screaming for me in the other room,
there is a blackbird nesting above my clothesline, it’s all
so fucking domestic,
at the baby gate my daughter is looking at me, no longer crying,
she’s learnt to point, me?
i ask, me, your mother?
another reflection,
this one, wanting to re-inhabit my skin
Above the Cutting
I watch, but also trespass on the droopy teenagers
by the bridge, they look like two herons waiting for fish
their necks are long, inelegant, hairless spies and
their plumage makes me smile, so carefully thought
about, down to the length of sock up a calf, one wears
a blazer, the other a school jumper tied around waist
After the shops, soon everything will happen, I will get
out of traffic and arrive home, the children will vanish
into something different, unlike bird, unlike boy
for now, we are under dishcloth clouds not finished
raining and, though I can’t see them, I know the silver
backs of carriages shuttle diligently beneath us
I look at my phone and find time has slipped into that
ungovernable era between three and six, I look at
the petrol tank, it’s half-empty and I am stuck behind a Toyota
I suppose it’s less about waiting and more about being
seen to wait, reminding the passing drivers of
half-agency, the agony of being only half-free, the loitering
beside landmarks of small, suburban fame
the graffiti that has always read, Eileen, I’ll always love you
even though it’s now covered by advertisements
but each time I pass I know it’s still there, there
is also the feeling in the background that change
arrives when everything seems to be still,
as though at some point a juicy carp might pass instead of
the next service to Alamein, one of them might flap hard and
fast enough to try for it, that that might be the catalyst
Stephanie Powell is a poet based in Naarm / Melbourne. Her latest collection of poetry is Invisible Wasp (Liquid Amber Press, 2024). She is the winner of the 2024 Woorilla Prize, the 2024 Ada Cambridge Prize for Poetry and her poem, Notes from Greenland was shortlisted for the Woollahra Digital Literary Award (2024). Her interests are books, with a side of writing and motherhood. Her author website is atticpoet.com
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