Poem in Which a Poet Considers Being Photographed

She offers to take my photograph. I say that would be
lovely but I don’t photograph well. She asks me to pick
three qualities I would like to show in myself and
some notes for style/atmosphere. I panic.

I say that sounds great—let’s do it! Somewhere I’ve
gone to hide. I am busy, genuinely busy so I put it
off. I remember her kindness as I rush between 
the deadlines filling my mind. Her suggestion niggles

at the bottom of a gender pit dug long ago. The little girl who 
always felt ugly is annoyed at having to share space again 
with an adult self who is no better at dealing with this
than she. I write a message saying I will talk to a friend

who is good at these things. I tell them about the pit
and the little girl. They say that maybe, then, I want 
to be confident, child-like and beautiful. I do and I don’t. 
That’s not what my poetry is like, is it? They agree. 

The photographer hasn’t replied. This is not her task. 
I decide to write a poem about it. That will surely 
help. I wish I hadn’t given my ex their pro photography 
books back. There would be a perfect example of me

there, surely? An exploration of inner darkness and light by Sally Mann
or photo-therapy with Jo Spence. Beyond Beauty like Irving Penn, 
Faye Godwin’s stark landscapes or the domestic intimacy of Elliott Erwitt. 
My ex, the photographer, never captured

a photograph of me that I liked. That kind of thinking never helps. 
I wish I were wiser and  could make myself vulnerable
enough to be strong like the women I admire. I wish
I were real like the women who have dug themselves out.

I imagine the courage and kindness in all the women
who make me laugh at how ridiculous all this is—
image, objectification, vanity. I want to be beautiful, sadly,
this is true. But not in a way that looks like I tried to be. 

I consider cancelling the whole thing. Now I’m against
the wall. I know there are hints already there but 
fear wells up inside me: memories of my mother trying to make
me smile or pose for sexy leg photo competitions for Page 3. 

I wish I were reserved, cool, aloof and had style. Like someone else?
Or that I really looked like people imagine I’d be when they read 
my poems. I wish I were made of words. And I lived
deep in a forest like a recluse and no one knew what

I looked like. I wish I were a punk who didn’t give a fuck. 
I think of myself back in Northern cities and how fragile
I’ve become. I try to imagine the singer in my old band:
how fearless and strong and urban. I think of my Nan

beautiful in her old age because she was kind and it showed
in every line of her face. I imagine this photographer trying
to make sense of all this terror and confusion. I imagine her saying
breathe—this is art, this is process: it’ll be fine.