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/.