She approaches me, wobbling a little
Upon her high stiletto heels.
Her face has been painted as though
She wears another’s portrait upon the surface of her skin.
Her eyebrows arc like adulterated rainbows
Their lids a convolution of colour.
Her hair is dyed chic, sculpted to the contours of her cheeks
Her lips are engorged with botox
And aflame with fire red.
She approaches me
The older, indistinct, grey haired woman at a cafe table.
We are strangers but it seems she is drawn to me
On request, she takes a seat beside me
And offers me her name
And I gift her with mine.
She speaks haltingly as if a butterfly
Were trapped in her mouth
And says
I would be authentic, be who I am fearlessly
But I am too scared to be seen and
She hangs her head in inverted shame.
I order her a cup of coffee
Ask her to look at me
And when she does, I smile
And look directly into her eyes.
Trudie Shannon
