Skin deep
You notice the crepe of your neck and belly first.
This skin you bake in the sun. At least
your stomach hides it’s nudity most of the time.
You start using factor fifty face cream
and tell yourself you don’t mind the deep crease
between your eyes and your laughter lines, which
are not crow’s feet. You try not to fret about
the puff and sag of your eyelids. The slack-slide
of your jaw. You buy expensive retinol lotions,
avoid mirrors, feel stabs of envy about your friend
who looks more youthful than you. So you call
on your feminist theories to help you out,
but the beauty myth won’t be banished.
What will you do now the honest light
of day-break and the midday sun’s glare,
refuses to flatter your face. Congratulate
yourself for avoiding Botox and fillers?
The thought of your sterile vanity
drops guilt round your shoulders.
You think of skin shredded by shrapnel
or stretched tight over the bones of bodies.
Your random privilege allows such thoughts
to flay your conscience, and yet you avoid
close-up photos, wear long sleeves to cover
flaky, thin-skinned arms. And now the ache
of your joints each day nags you with thoughts
of how much worse things will become. You drink
gin to forget and pretend you are young.
Jenny Robb has been writing poetry since retiring from a social work and NHS career, mainly in mental health. She’s been published widely in online and print magazines, and anthologies. Her debut collection is The Doll’s Hospital, Yaffle Press 2022.