The following poem was written by Jo, one hour after the photo shoot. Jo has also blogged about this shoot.
Don’t touch me.
Just look.
At me.
Through your lens.
Your grey-green eyes hide
behind dark glasses.
My normal clothes removed,
I hide behind my truth,
beneath this silk
and lace.
I put powder on my face
I swing my hair
I smile.
I do not squint
for you
are gentle
with the light.
I make light
of my pain
when faced
with such exposure
in the glare of your eyes,
behind the lens
of four square beams that look up
and away
and I am grateful.
While I,
the ‘I’ I choose today
languishes in fur.
Fake fur
that last warmed the body of my grandmother, Eva.
And so, today, I am Eve. The first woman you ever laid eyes on.
My mouth watered for that apple
and I would have eaten greedily, making scarlet bitemarks in its flesh.
My laugh belies the fact
that I know
that you can see
my cellulite,
the flab and folds that now fringe my upper arms and thighs.
I tilt back my head,
feel the warmth of golden hair as it uncoils,
falling snakelike down my naked back.
And I am glad this move removes
the creases at my neck.
I look into the camera with boldness,
bravery, a brazen glimmer in my stare.
Today, the I I am has come to crave
this adulation, knowing, as I do, that it, like time,
like opportunities like this,
is fleeting.
In the blink of an eye, the click of a shutter,
this afternoon
will soon
be just a snapshot -
a memory of a moment
when I allowed myself to melt,
in my mind’s eye,
into sensuousness.
I pull on my jeans,
tie back my hair,
kiss away the scarlet from my lips against my hand.
I shrug on the shapeless cardigan in which I came
and again feel safe,
my vulnerable side
back in its cage
of middle age.
Yet here at the limit of my low cut top,
if you look carefully and closely
you will see a glimpse of cleavage,
a reminder of a too short shoot, when there was only me.
Me and the camera.
