The women sit around John at a table
His sleeves are rolled up, theirs are not
Half a face missing
She is shy, lets her hair fall
They tell him, tell each other
How unmoved they are by oil-painted nudes
By glum women with improbable breasts
Violently peachy arses
Nor are they moved by the sight of themselves
In a mirror which they know
Reflects back an image they do not own
These are the women of the seventies
Who became our mothers
Who became grandmothers
Who decided not to be dormant
Until touched by a man
Imogen lives in Brighton and has just started saying ‘writer’ when people ask her what she does. She writes long stories, short stories and things that rhyme; all dive deep into the mess and murk of womanhood. Imogen has written fiction, poetry and journalism for various online and print magazines, and has an MA in Creative & Life Writing from Goldsmith’s. Of ‘THE NEW NUDE’, she says “this poem explores the way women are watched.” @noopvonsnoop