Self-Portrait of the Poet, Looking at a Photo of Herself
By Sara Letourneau
Photo taken at Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts, September 2021
Look at my eyes
and how they sparkle like tumbled aventurine
behind my glasses. Everyone says my eyes
are the first thing they notice about me.
So did my boyfriend when we finally sat down
to talk about love. He still swears my irises
are the color of polished nickel.
I disagree, but I won’t deny that,
when in just the right light
and at just the right angle, they glow—
soft and steady, like the headlamps
we’ll both wear at the Lava Tunnel cave tour
in a few days. But right here, right now,
I’m at the airport, waiting with him
for our check-in desk to open,
glasses on and sweetly tilted
as I look at his camera,
dark brown hair half-up,
half falling out of the matching elastic;
one hand tugging down my magenta COVID mask
so I can smile for the photo (and for him),
the other curled around the small of my back
to reveal a peek of the opal promise ring
he gave me five months ago.
No pimples or chin hairs are visible,
the freckles on my cheeks too small to see
from this short distance,
but it’s clear from the heart-blush on my cheeks
and the vastness of my grin that I’m thinking
only about the upcoming trip
and not my perceived imperfections.
Behind me, the waiting area at Terminal E
is dim, the announcement screens and white numbers
at each closed desk blurred, almost impossible
to read, as the girl in the mint green shirt—
the girl who is me—
reflects all of the room’s light
like the snow I’ll see atop Snaefellsjökull in one week.
Or perhaps I’m not reflecting light
but emitting my own,
a beacon of my world and his,
using lenses made of intuition that flash a message—
Look at me, I am beautiful—
that I’m only now beginning to believe.
In the Bath
Here,
in the hotel bathtub,
I am resting
in water scented with
coconut shampoo
and arctic thyme bath salts,
rinsing myself
in solitude,
a river of reveling.
My boyfriend has already
washed my hair
and my body,
but that is not
why I feel
cleaner
and newborn.
Here,
in this bathtub,
I marvel at myself
for the first time as an adult.
Smooth, uncalloused feet
with toenails painted
the purple of orchids.
The thighs I’ve called
thick and flabby,
now weightless.
My stomach,
softly sloping,
a meadow of skin
inclining toward
the hills of my breasts.
Slender arms,
with hands that hold love
and fingers that give back.
Now they wave
from side to side
so that gentle tides
are slapping against porcelain,
splashing my face,
rippling, whispering.
Here,
in the bathtub,
I let my body rise
to the surface,
let my old fetal self
unfurl my limbs and neck
so my new eyes
and freshened mind
can see me as I glisten,
as I glow.
Here,
a dam I never knew
I had built
bursts inside,
and thoughts of
blemishes,
scars,
spidering veins
are swept out to sea
as I caress
this precious vessel
that carries me.
Sara Letourneau is a poet, freelance book editor, writing coach, and writing workshop instructor who lives in suburban Massachusetts. Her poetry has received first place in the Blue Institute’s 2020 Words on Water Contest and appeared in Mass Poetry’s Poem of the Moment and The Hard Work of Hope, Constellations, Soul-Lit, Amethyst Review, The Avocet, The Aurorean, Golden Walkman Magazine, Aromatica Poetica, and Muddy River Poetry Review, among others. When she’s not working or writing, she enjoys drinking tea, doing yoga, reading, cooking and baking, and going on adventures (including traveling) with her boyfriend. Her manuscript for her first full-length collection of poems is currently on submission. You can learn more about Sara at https://heartofthestoryeditorial.com/.
