My reflection is under threat
like a bilby or a platypus.
Sightings are getting rarer.
In photos there’s a me I don’t remember
with long legs and short shorts
and shoes without socks
before the spiders came
and spun blue webs around my calves
in thickly knotted thread
Back then I dyed my hair
(even although it wasn’t greying)
and tried to learn about make-up
Now I have silver wings above my ears
and don't own a stick of lippy
but I’ve nested a hornet family,
buzzing busy reproduction in my breast,
forming self important clots.
Extrication will leave a scar
like a tree without its coolamon*
and I will float on now
without that familiar, maternal bark.
And so, the mirror wavers again
and the buzz of hornets grows deafening.
I turn away from my reflection
once more to the people who love me back
*A coolomon (click here to see tree scar and read more) is an anglicised version of the name for the Aboriginal carrying vessel
Written for dVerse – Grace’s prompt – MTB The Body & Poetry