This poem is taken from PN Review 291, Volume 53 Number 1, September - October 2026.
Four Poems
Self-Portrait as Autopsy
after a painting by Soheila Sokhanvari
The pockets of your dress don’t contain anything of value.
There’s a peach tree growing dementedly from your head,
Branching off in two directions. One way the leaves
Are like kindly ruffles, the other way is bare. When you ask
For advice they flutter and say Reply hazy, try again. Some people
Keep their feelings lined up as neat as sardines in a tin.
Others just flop around rudely, splashing water everywhere.
Time is a punishment that shows on the skin, your face
Muddy and riddled with errors. It’s ugly to be so exposed,
Like removing an elaborate wig. It’s humiliating, like being
The untouched dish at a buffet. The ceiling fan jerkily
Turns overhead; an electric noise buzzes in your ears.
You hear your voice played back, distorted by reverb,
Saying words you should’ve said before, but didn’t.
Self-Portrait as Social Media
after a painting by Soheila Sokhanvari
Have you ever seen a cheeky squirrel waving like a baby.
Who knows why my transparent hands are sat in my lap like twin dogs.
You can catch more lies with sushi than with rice wine vinegar.
Why my mouth is open in every photo like a Godzilla yell.
Dabbing my skin with peevish concealer.
Will no one remedy my asbestos hair?
If wishes were horses, I’d need to feed them so many apples.
If I were headless, life would be that much easier.
Why I look as fried as a fish on a Chinese platter.
Staring balefully at the camera is my signature move.
In my mustard yellow dress, I’m boneless as a chicken fillet.
You can throw a dog a phone, but he won’t know how to use it.
The house is pregnant with nonsense and the horse is full of blame.
The curtains hide a multitude of faults (most of them mine).
Have you ever seen a zigzag graph climbing unaccountably.
My mood shooting upwards like the monstera plant in the corner.
Thinking about baby back ribs like there’s no tomorrow.
I spread my hair out on a pillow like a peacock fan.
In my artsy smock dress, I snarkily arch my neck.
Why the face on a tree smiles at me, then conspiratorially winks.
Self-Portrait as Nancy Beaton Photographed by Her Brother
I hold my breath to make my small waist smaller, gulp between takes.
We might be in this together, but I’m the one with the boobs.
Whatever you think I’m thinking, I’m not. I pinch my lips
Until they’re swollen, widen my eyes like a goose. Rouge for days.
We can’t afford anything real, it’s just homemade tat – old sheets
And cellophane for a backdrop. We point our anglepoise lamps.
My dress is an illusion of tulle and gaffer tape; my shoes mustn’t move
An inch. The pasteboard wand in my grasp: magician’s assistant?
I can smile without feeling, clasp a hand to my breast. On paper
My body is shadow and light; spangles in my hair are silver coins.
An over-the-shoulder look is a kind of dare – Stop, don’t. I tip my head
To expose more neck: it’s a prize. Gaze at the camera longingly.
Add enough padding, make me a star. A body is a trap you can’t slip
Out of like an evening dress. Pose as a woman made of thin air.
Dallas
CBS TV, 1978–91
Darling, you look cheap as a glazed doughnut.
Let’s make a deal where I talk behind your back.
I love it when you throw a crystal decanter at my head.
The sun is high as my spirits and the horses are as red.
Help yourself to my jug of whiskey sours.
They’ll make you forget your lacklustre plans.
Your hair unfurls like party streamers when I’m done with it.
I kick back giddily in my upholstered leather chair.
I keep my secretary close (and my mistress closer).
Let’s blackmail a senator for his shares before lunch.
Now your daddy is worthless as a belt without a buckle.
Out of the frying pan, into the country club.
Slap me in the face like you mean it, sweetheart.
I sure do love it when you rope me like a steer.
If you believe I’m from Texas, you’ll believe anything.
The T-bone steak of my ambition is cooking up real nicely.
Is that a gun in your pocketbook or are you just happy to shoot me?
I wink at you lazily as my blood congeals.
Bless you and your pretty little grudges, honey.
Let’s wash the past away like it was all a bad dream.
after a painting by Soheila Sokhanvari
The pockets of your dress don’t contain anything of value.
There’s a peach tree growing dementedly from your head,
Branching off in two directions. One way the leaves
Are like kindly ruffles, the other way is bare. When you ask
For advice they flutter and say Reply hazy, try again. Some people
Keep their feelings lined up as neat as sardines in a tin.
Others just flop around rudely, splashing water everywhere.
Time is a punishment that shows on the skin, your face
Muddy and riddled with errors. It’s ugly to be so exposed,
Like removing an elaborate wig. It’s humiliating, like being
The untouched dish at a buffet. The ceiling fan jerkily
Turns overhead; an electric noise buzzes in your ears.
You hear your voice played back, distorted by reverb,
Saying words you should’ve said before, but didn’t.
Self-Portrait as Social Media
after a painting by Soheila Sokhanvari
Have you ever seen a cheeky squirrel waving like a baby.
Who knows why my transparent hands are sat in my lap like twin dogs.
You can catch more lies with sushi than with rice wine vinegar.
Why my mouth is open in every photo like a Godzilla yell.
Dabbing my skin with peevish concealer.
Will no one remedy my asbestos hair?
If wishes were horses, I’d need to feed them so many apples.
If I were headless, life would be that much easier.
Why I look as fried as a fish on a Chinese platter.
Staring balefully at the camera is my signature move.
In my mustard yellow dress, I’m boneless as a chicken fillet.
You can throw a dog a phone, but he won’t know how to use it.
The house is pregnant with nonsense and the horse is full of blame.
The curtains hide a multitude of faults (most of them mine).
Have you ever seen a zigzag graph climbing unaccountably.
My mood shooting upwards like the monstera plant in the corner.
Thinking about baby back ribs like there’s no tomorrow.
I spread my hair out on a pillow like a peacock fan.
In my artsy smock dress, I snarkily arch my neck.
Why the face on a tree smiles at me, then conspiratorially winks.
Self-Portrait as Nancy Beaton Photographed by Her Brother
I hold my breath to make my small waist smaller, gulp between takes.
We might be in this together, but I’m the one with the boobs.
Whatever you think I’m thinking, I’m not. I pinch my lips
Until they’re swollen, widen my eyes like a goose. Rouge for days.
We can’t afford anything real, it’s just homemade tat – old sheets
And cellophane for a backdrop. We point our anglepoise lamps.
My dress is an illusion of tulle and gaffer tape; my shoes mustn’t move
An inch. The pasteboard wand in my grasp: magician’s assistant?
I can smile without feeling, clasp a hand to my breast. On paper
My body is shadow and light; spangles in my hair are silver coins.
An over-the-shoulder look is a kind of dare – Stop, don’t. I tip my head
To expose more neck: it’s a prize. Gaze at the camera longingly.
Add enough padding, make me a star. A body is a trap you can’t slip
Out of like an evening dress. Pose as a woman made of thin air.
Dallas
CBS TV, 1978–91
Darling, you look cheap as a glazed doughnut.
Let’s make a deal where I talk behind your back.
I love it when you throw a crystal decanter at my head.
The sun is high as my spirits and the horses are as red.
Help yourself to my jug of whiskey sours.
They’ll make you forget your lacklustre plans.
Your hair unfurls like party streamers when I’m done with it.
I kick back giddily in my upholstered leather chair.
I keep my secretary close (and my mistress closer).
Let’s blackmail a senator for his shares before lunch.
Now your daddy is worthless as a belt without a buckle.
Out of the frying pan, into the country club.
Slap me in the face like you mean it, sweetheart.
I sure do love it when you rope me like a steer.
If you believe I’m from Texas, you’ll believe anything.
The T-bone steak of my ambition is cooking up real nicely.
Is that a gun in your pocketbook or are you just happy to shoot me?
I wink at you lazily as my blood congeals.
Bless you and your pretty little grudges, honey.
Let’s wash the past away like it was all a bad dream.
This poem is taken from PN Review 291, Volume 53 Number 1, September - October 2026.