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Jehovah

Leaning over, brushing pool cloth with collarbone,
feet shoulder widthed.
        Air cotton-heated, close
THE SUN deep in the pavement.
        Tonight, dressed like Marlene D
white shirt, tucked
thin fabric,
nipples looooooose and long, kissing the green,
        kissing green and
brown oak with embossed edges.

A boy, lingering—
taking in all your loveliness
under the table lights.

Lots of time,
        lots of time, spent
trying to know god
the witnessing years,
timber-ed kingdom hall
on a half-acre outside Launceston
rows of chairs
rows of chairs
rows of chairs:
coral walls, pea green cushions &
yellowed pine.
Dirt-spiked wind
in summer.

And you sat, palms on lap
like two sleeping dogs.
Then pushed out,
        made again somewhere else.

        Here you go:
whispering to that boy now
asking his age,
he is much younger,
but you are still beautiful.

        There, unprized
in eyes that look of unreachability,
        of open suture and
        possibility.

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Stephanie Powell writes and takes photos. Her collection Bone was published by Halas Press in 2021. She is the recipient of the Melbourne Poets Union Poetry Prize, 2022.