Three Faces Of Eve Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Eve is downsizing
After a busy day at the office
Peeling off her glamour puss golden wig
She lights a fag, dragging a comb along
The stumps of her thinning hair
Smearing the make up off her weary face

Beneath the paint, the face is gaunt and grey
The eyes emerge from their cosmetic chrysalis
Bleary and red-rimmed, crackly at the edge
The breasts, de-bagged from the brassiere
Sag, small and sad above the dropping slip

Humming, she lights a candle at her shrine
Of fashion models, twenty years her junior

Who does she see in the mirror?
Why, who does anyone see?
Selves are like layers of clothes,
In the rag-bag of life

But she has grace, still,
Sliding through the door
Towards the hidden bedroom
Like a thoroughbred, like an old swan
In sleep, she'll be a siren with wet flanks