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

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