Leanne Moden – Two Poems

Vacuum Cleaner, 2123

after Thomas Lux

More kleptocrat than civil servant, 
she devoured tangled hair cobwebs, 

choked down our discarded essence, 
tarnished pennies rattling in her cavernous belly. 

Crushed Loestrin teased from carpet weave,
moths pulverised by her tough plastic throat.

Constellations of half-moon clippings
chewed from our bleeding fingers, 

busted earring backs & bent paperclips 
caught against her Hoover uvula.

If some archaeologist – one hundred years from now –
dug through those Dyson dust bags,  

they’d know more about us than any 
supermarket loyalty scheme – GDPR be damned.

This is one time capsule 
Blue Peter wouldn’t dare bury:

all broken biscuits & squashed spiders swallowed by the 
swirling suction that never failed to scare the cat.

If I ever die – which I won’t – you can build my clone 
from the skin particles gathered in her filters 

figuring out what to feed me by 
shifting through the dust. 

House of Mirrors

I am everywhere disappearing,
multiplying,
walking through walls,
chasing the image of myself.

Each disconcerting doppelganger
a shimmering distortion;
arms screwed to the wrong shoulders,
mannequin body on mismatched feet.

This is not how I see myself: 
shorter, broader, older,
a fading facsimile, printed
and reprinted to a smudge of memory. 

I am a copy of a copy of a copy,
each one wearing the same small smile,
as if she knows what it’s like
to be first. 

Leanne Moden