On Olive Cotton’s photograph of Max Dupain
summer curls from the page.
he is back, skin taut with salt, half-smoked
cigarette clenched in the vice of two fingers.
blood still pounds to the muscular clutch
of waves. back, in the dim room where she
sleeps. naked. humid. sheets rumpled with sex
pushed back. he grasps the wooden bed end
half turns from her, back to the turmoil.
light shafts from the window, a bright
weight upon her. it is nineteen thirty nine.
newly married, the horizon in his mind
glitters with change. one of them will leave.
max in chiaroscuro, his thoughts in shadow.
waking, she thinks nothing is shuttered
from her. she reaches for her camera.
stay there, she whispers. stay like that.