Hair. Cut for ease. Colour drained
And no real shape, framing the tired
Face drooping and creased like a map
Once brought out for every journey, twisted
And turned and argued over. Now stuffed
Down the back of the drivers seat.
Replaced with swish, modern technology.
Perfunctory turn left now. She says it without
Moving her lips.
Two deflated balloons sit like wallflowers
Wondering what it must be like to be
Noticed, but not really wanting to be
Observed. Perhaps this is why they
Try to hide when we lie down
Blending into the wobbly wings.
They’re not like they once
Were. Full of perkiness and promise,
Defying gravity. Suspended over the
Taut expanse of skin, now crepey and
Lined like a tiger. Torn bedsheets.
The sort you never put on a guest bed
And probably should throw out
But it serves its purpose. It stays.
Thighs, once powerful and thick
Softened, slimmed and loose. Making their
Way down and slightly folding
Over the worn knees.
Thick veins bulging towards
Feet, gnarled and bumpy
Like the roots of a tree.
Harsh Reflection is a poem about body image by Ms Moem.