by STEPHANIE POWELL
You are with the sea, in the oaty craw of water. Each morning I wake to find the bed empty. The house full of splashing and dawn.
Remind me to tell you,
how the bus climbs the hill between the junction and Bronte.
How at the top is the cemetery and a long drop into the ocean.
You are with the tall grass, wheat dry, tangled in blonde knots and decomposing birds.
This bath copies another. Far too hot to begin with I sit upright in the tub until it cools. You on the tiles, chin upon the lip, staring up at me. I want you to look away, not at my pinkness, the crossed, thick calves. We’ve sat in this room a long time. I don’t have much to say, not beautiful enough for the perfume in the water, it gets in my eyes when I tip my head back or rub my face. Feels like drowning.
Tonight, I have the house all to myself.
The squall of engines constant, trams heckle the windows.
Can you call this music?
Can you tell someone you love them with this sort of song?
I sit on the couch in my favourite shirt, a couple of buttons undone until
the v sits under my breastbone.
In the mirror I pretend I’ve had a boob job, hoist them
towards my chin with my hands.
You are with another season
I mistake a streetlamp for fireworks.