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Alli Westerhoff Aug 2015
Admiration is a word that comes to mind when I think about her work.
The seamstress only has to imagine and she can create a masterpiece of herself.
With every thread, button, and hem she tells a story.
She represents herself with every outfit. Her work molds to her every curve and bump.
She can move effortlessly and not worry about a tair
or loose string.
She can create herself into exactly who she wants to be.

And then there is me.
Who has to fight every zipper,
glare at every neckline,
and gripe at worn out areas that have rubbed and tugged to try and fit
my untamed figure.
The clothes that disguise me only entangle me
in a world of self hate and disappointment.
The number or letter on the tag become scars tattooed in my brain of three words:
not
skinny
enough.

I remember when a boy in line during the 4th grade called me fat ***.
I remember when I was taken by my mother to a store that "might have things that fit better."
I remember looking at pictures of myself next to my friends and instantly comparing every inch of myself to theirs.
I remember when I looked at myself and thought, "maybe if you lost 20lbs. you would be attractive."
When the Seamstress looks in the mirror she sees a canvas.
A challenge.
A body that will fit herself.

When I look in the mirror I see a girl fighting to fit in her body.
I see those memories of hiding behind baggy sweaters.
I see countless dressing room breakdowns.
The seamstress must have harsh eyes.
She must have her own burden.
Her clothes may be her own, but is it all a disguise to hide herself too?
Christine Ueri Jul 2015
Japanese temple trees no longer line the way home.
I left them behind.
But my mind still strolls that avenue,
and I still see
the light catching on the bare branches
and the sparse leaves of Autumn in The Grove.

The Woodhoopoes are still nesting
in the temple trees next to the gate
I don't enter anymore.
Their iridescent plumes
still shimmer green and blue
as their vermilion scimitar bills chatter
in the to-and-fro, to-and-fro
sway of their familial ritual.
What cacophony when one has won
itself a fat gecko—the chicks won't go hungry.

I left the haphazardly arranged feathers
in the wooden frame of the French doors
I no longer unlock and enter.

The two cereal bowls
left on the table
where we did everything
have been reduced
to one.
And the table simply is.  

Now I work among veteran soldiers—
Old Pigeons with crooked feet
caused by all the lines
they've crossed, all the twines
they've tangled with, but Pigeons,
they survive without their feet.

And instead of temple trees,
buildings line the way home—
concrete and steel constructions
among long ribbons of asphalt and . . .

From a distance,
up on the third storey,
it looks like a jungle out there,
but no, on the ground,
up close, it is just human.

I still keep the Owl's feather away from the day-birds',
but I no longer collect more feathers.

No, instead, I tuck symbolic quills behind my ear.

Sagittarius serpentarius

The image of the Secretarybird towers
over the rest of the symbols
on the Official Documents I peruse.
Contracts.
I walk away, tucking the quill.

In the land of the blind, there is a one-eyed rule:
close the other eye.  

I feel the rhythm of keys beneath icy fingers,
eyes tearing from the glare of the monitor,
retracted quills rising—  
unseen antennae erected on the back of my neck—
a human lie detector.

Type, type, type:
repudiation,
subrogation,
violation . . .

Hit the letters with the power of the word.

Noisy little twitter-bird to my left,
on top of her office chair,
she’s raucous like a hysterical Mynah:

"****-****-****-****...**** everything!!!"

Absconding the scene,
I stamp, stamp, stamp
AR numbers, CAS numbers, verified.

The African masks behind my workstation:
ugly metaphors for who I really am.

Sagittarius serpentarius

A Marching Eagle,
the Devil's Horse,
the Secretarybird;
sitting in a concrete cage,
my youngest would've died of starvation,
so I let her fly a long way from home,
but nonetheless home
with her Lily-Pad-Walker father.

Jesus-bird,

With legs like a crane but scalier,
a Marching Eagle doesn't walk on water.
It stands close to the grassland fire,
waiting for its prey.
Then stomping.
Then crushing bones.
Then swallowing whole.

Balance is unnecessary.
Just bend and kick,

backwards.

Saqr-et-tair: hawk-bird, hunter-bird.

He said his heart was a dreaming Red Hawk
whose eyes he wouldn't let me see,
and Bukowski's heart was a Blue Bird of pain.
I said I didn't know
what sort of bird lived in mine,
but it dreamt the same dream:
giant wings
breaking out of its ribbed cage . . .
long runway . . .
long runway. . .
then slow, deep *****
of----------of-----------of------------of----------------of
bad weather and . . .

I fear the day it tires of dreaming.

Offices. Soldiers. Pigeons.

I slip gunpowder pillulets under my tongue:
Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

There is a Barn Owl in my mirror,
steamed up. I dream
a ****** of Crows
alights on my brow,
but I am too feverish to catch them.
Too weak.
I dream a ****** of Crows
rising from the loquat tree
where my eldest was born,

across the road . . .

I watch them
from the third storey of a collection of cages,
and I know
this building
is a cold-hearted-thirty-three-eyed-soldier
with a dog tag for a tongue,
and a contract
bound to the crooked feet of the Pigeons I didn't feed.
25/07/2015
jennifer ann Aug 2014
apreciate the world for all of its beauty,
& please dont dwell on all of the negativity,
eventhough society is cruel and ugly,
please remember my love, that you are lovely.

you're too young, to be so broken down and sad.
dont let bad people, make you feel so bad.

& i know, you have a million scars on your broken
heart, but its time to let it go, dont let toxic people tair you apart, its time to move on, be strong and let yourself grow.

lifes too short and too precious,
time flys by far too fast, dont destroy your
future, dwelling on your troublesome past.
hug more, fight less.
relax, and dont stress.
live every day like its going to be your last.

if i had a time machiene.
these are the things that i would tell myself.
at the age of seventeen.
jennifer ann Dec 2014
no we're not married,
but i'll love you untill i'm dead and buried.
just us against the world, no one can tair us apart.
you brought me out of the dark.

i love you in the rain, i love you in the sun,
i love you in a hurricane, you are the only one.
your smile is like a sunset, your laugh is like a song,
your heart feels just like home to me,
your kiss is like a symphony,
in your arms is where i belong.

your touch makes me blush, sometimes i feel like i cant breathe,
your love is the best gift i will ever recieve.
Ain Sep 2020
Ab neend aa rahi hai bohot
Ab so jaana hi padega...

Socha tha kuch baat kar leti
Raat ka haal pata kar leti...
Der magar ** rahi hai bohot
Ab so jaana hi padega
Ab neend aa rahi hai bohot....

Tum jis neend ke dariya mein...
Tair rahe ** khwabon mein...
Us dariya ki ab talab hai bohot...
Ab so jaana hi padega
Ab neend aa rahi hai bohot....

Uthe nahi tum ab tak bhi
Soye nahi hum ab tak bhi
Waqt zalim mein farq hai bohot
Ab so jaana hi padega
Ab neend aa rahi hai bohot....
Connor Johnson May 2020
In marlow be he lopped of puneth steff
und marked léath in toper laked breath.
Larned of gyre within underparried smoth,
Through nigh for lone barnit do such men.

One sclarms in great hooroopalées
To know desous that legemont criney laves,
Und staphe und bemolie dank for tiny ravings
lund for farnitulobomy maketh scathing lathes.

With gear und glem Sten over themble tee,
Class teeblon fra noy in silver nins.
For durng broy al mar laked schees
Lar tophe maynansi tipple skins.

Thar léath ti maynansi ouvrer tair
Lop scollomis trayver lorna frayn.
Ab lasci nordich mosa far tibu glar.
Rate olvo vraydon seem us legemont clane.

— The End —