Apricot Press

Duck dive

I like it.
The water spitting me clean,
I’m a brand-new tooth. 

Rising from a duck-dive 
I gnash the air, 
finding breath. Spit out the lake.

Flushed out-
but only here, when
body oscillates below.

Arms and legs pointed out 
like falling, like jumping-
but pushed back up.

A whirling stream 
engulfing all the little
leaves and twig-branches.

Pulling them under  
to live like 
the fishes or drown.

Hubcaps

By Stephanie Powell

On Boxing Day, we wash the car,
pat down surfaces-
erasing dots of dirt-rain 
colonising the bonnet.

An unfit summer mid-
morning. Mild, grey, I wear
a borrowed fleece. 
Mum is inside stacking the 
good china away after 
Christmas lunch.

Wedding spoons, heirloom
coffee cups-
there is a family tree
of crockery at home on every
table and bench top.

I fill a second bucket with 
soapy water.

When we clean the hubcaps, we 
really get down on the ground.
I mean, we discover a new calling.
Spray each one and 
wipe crevices, deep.
Rags leave alloy stained
in pollution. Driveway pebbles 
make indentations
on the back of my thighs.

It was not apparent until we
began to scrub.
Now even the brightest, mirror shine 
will never be good enough.

It’s the parenthesis 
of the season.
Our working hands go on.

From inside the
chintzy noise of 
plates being stowed
continues,
the cricket plays 
on the TV,
unwatched in an empty room.

Photo credit: Erik Dungan