Stephanie Powell

in the changing rooms, what are you? you, wet and warm in muscle, you open-eared behind

cubicles, finally safe from aqua profunda and a fear of limbs seizing and drowning, dialling for more hot water from the shower timer.


it’s a slow collapse into the steam

or maybe it’s as simple as the pleasure of skin and the taste of tap water

or how breasts compare by the lockers the way they dive from chests.


in the changing rooms, what are you doing? looking through mirrors

unpacking infinite thighs the reflection of your body

loosening like segments pulled from an orange.


dipping body, a heron-head pulling up knickers over knees, rolls of belly fat pressed into legs

it is OK to admire how you are always a new type of fish, a vertebrate with a

broken neck when damp and slipping into jeans


To be invisible, bliss. Slicking a still wet finger along clavicle like gathering sugar

twisting hair above the nape your bones, the big bang

in new clothes, mirror mist.