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Under the bird's winged arm

Where should she have been with you?

I wake in the middle of the night, the dove covered in wax
could not fly with her dried body
the woman cannot slope in numbness
surpass the fearful, but how will treat her injuries?
assign the flight, but what will we give the bird?

bring her the warmth,
but do not let the light
reveal the tusks of her marauder
let the child break the smother
take her flight, peel the clovers from her eyelids

detangle the barb wire
from the feathers inside the nest, pluck them into her
paint in the cracks, with teeth of dyed enamel
she hides the paper from the sword
The awkwardness drudges her feet

flaxen the colour
of her sterile embarrassment from rash
mother... they paint with boiling water
on the playmat of faith... keep her
from the jealous puffin

avoid the pigment within open scab
mould the scar in clay, to hide the scratch, but tell
do you lick the pedestals of the false idols? and strum their clear skin?
pick the dust from her stripes
and crickets from her belly

creased her ligaments
and gulped the air of the fall
repetitive fear, all things
pull back to their children
and see

Her pretentiousness lacked her
she did not speak like this
she spoke happy
margin the verses, write her best lines
of the spoken wealth

feed her acid ripe fruit
to ferly
let the adopted
butter the nails of the owl
to keep his distraction

let the bird fall, she will glide
wrap the soles of her feet
with the cloth from her eyes
stitch her garments to the binding
let the bird sober in her tuck

Clothe the nails of the mothers
sing to the pigeon’s
hollow lined reticles
break the obese wings of the dove
and bathe her in milk

treat the sores with goa,
congealed moulds
of censored figures
plaster the wax
of the squab

The mutton of chewed sheep
bended to the muscles in her mouth, her stucco mounted
of pale lipped skin and arched hip of contrapposto
like art, she was a bird, that flew into a window
like art, the skin of false idols, compare to, sterile growth

and tissues made of lace, bite down the wasted growth
stay calm to the tribes of fear,
of rages and tumours in good light
stay fearless in the trial of loud, have and have not
bite the midge, and fall asleep she does

clasp to the curdle of fat in her womb
but grounded in the wear
of her own mind’s narrative
By means, she was not shaking
she was quite and burdened

with the possibility of spare
and help not alone, paint with the oil of the tumour and cotton
to be scared, in she moved to be tired
clasp the writers, and rotate the walls
the understanding was in closure, did the scholars lose?

sugar pierces in the bird like open marrow,
why do you feed them with your fathers?
dim the law, when the impressionists
see the stutter in their work, then the bird
will stretch his window’s into open walls, and mock the boxing Minotaur

the goosebumps of painted gelatin on surrealist canvas
make the hair of her roots
grow into themselves, and weave to elope
pardon the pregnancy, share the joy,
let the children claim, your embarrassment

the fallow of the bird’s narrow beak
she placed her strokes in hand and palm
in form and greetings, she composed herself
the confession of her remembrance, she fell by
her age, shows in nimble fingers

spurred hope and instance
cape sparrow, capernaum, keep her in her last days
for all she feared, it was not on her face
she would not sink into herself
her only bitter in the bliss of her distraction

she covered her crying hand with face
and the hair, with the red ears of soil
that envelope the groves of her nose
hold the dress for the mannequin,
before it falls

all in good time’s, in all trials
to the lesions on tar skin
the curtsy of the playing dancer, and the dove
we are all waiting for the end
all said by said be done
include her in your poetry


-- Jana C., 9th-12th Grade