Poem in Which I Think Myself Out

Bare foot stepping on a bumble bee’s shadow:
it ought to sting. Too many
pink roses for one bee. How far can a pair
of socks be hurled
if the tops are rolled round each other.
People might think
the pink retro sports car outside
belongs to me. Laura Robson’s tennis skirt
is cut from a bed valance:
go Laura, but not
into the world of unnecessary soft furnishings
or cars like that one –
vandal target, metallic powder puff.
Strange how powder blue and pink exist,
but powder green
is unthinkable. My mother’s glass powder jar
and her seated at the three-sided
dressing-table mirror, my face
pale at its corners.
On the tube, long rows of heads
repeated through the glass
of each connecting door. Do I
exist when I’m not in the mirror;
and what if
the large rusty manhole
on the swimming-pool floor (deep end)
were to open. Our bodies
jammed in the sewer like pale fish.

Fiona Moore

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s