Why the idea of Botox leaves me frozen
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes finds herself tempted by cosmetic surgery – but it forces her to think about what she might lose in the process
THE LILIES
It began with my face; it had sunken in slightly
On the cheekbones and was sagging gently at the jawline.
My mouth was less evident; I noticed it first
When I’d catch myself in the mirror between smiles.
But one woman’s newspaper revelation as she celebrated
Her facial injections and the years that evaporated
From between her ears, persuaded me to book myself in.
Nearer the time I realised how I recognise the spaces between
My eyes, my cheekbones, my nose and chin, and how my lips
Are real to me despite their loss of depth and symmetry.
Fear grew, fear of losing sight of myself as myself,
Fear of seeing a cushion-cheeked version looking better slept,
Better managed, better preserved, yet only temporarily
Unless I now subscribed to be removed incrementally further
From the face I always knew. Fear compelled me to cancel.
Retrieving my deposit was a finality. I pour myself a glass of wine
And sit with my dogs at the end of the day, crumbling before lilies
That do not judge as they silently sweat their heady scent
Until it saturates the evening air with their exuberance,
Even as they spill their petals in their race towards decay.