I am a coat hanger, Wire frame, Jagged shoulders. This cement dress hangs Flat Against my steel skeleton, Each pound measured On balancing scales. Each illusion of my Magic act, with Hand on hip, Pursed lips, Camera clicks. Sending digital scarlet love Into my corners and folds, Leaving my mirror image Still stretched and bent, Bloated and worn In beveled store windows. I am hung To be sold.
About Author:
Maria Calleja is a Toronto-based writer whose work examines self-image, culture, and the social currents shaping modern life. Her current event articles have appeared in Maclean’s, Toronto Life, and The Toronto Star.