What Do Most See? By Kathleen Fellows
We see them all
everyday, we notice
They look like
prisoners all dressed up
Or dressed down
showing their ribs proudly
They try to fill
the canvases of our
Modern art, but
are just too small for that
Except for the males
which need the muscle
Their clothing
is different from each ad
But none clings
to their slim, bony bodies
Like you would
want clothes to fit anyone
The fabric
limply hangs off shoulders and
Weakly struggles
to stay around the waist
The skin shines with
too much baby oil
And is often
stained with a sharp orange,
Harshly
resembling a wet carrot
Which the causes
the clothing further
Strain to keep
on the slippery insects
No one is
compelled to admire them
Children cannot
manage to find figures
To grow to be,
instead there are people
Kids see
everyday can never be
False cause
fallacies are everywhere here
“It’s the dolls,
the cartoons,” the people cry,
Not noticing the
humans there in front
Ready to accept
money for thousands’
Base of
miserable insecurities
I am not
interested in this one
It was not a
good topic to start with
I know nothing
about punctuation
When it comes to
poetry. It’s your fault
I really wish
you would at least teach us
_____________________________________________________________________
What Did You
See? By Fanny Howe
I saw the
shrouds of prisoners
like baptismal
gowns
buried outside
the cemetery.
On the canvas
frills exhaled
singed wool and
cardboard.
The angels
arrived as lace.
Took notes, then
stuck. Awful residue
from a small
cut.
•
The veil has
been ripped from the skin
where it was
burned in.
The skin is the
veil, the baby-material,
imprinted on, as
if
one dropped the
handkerchief
and it was one’s
wrist.
The cuff is
frightening.
Stuffed onto
oil.
Water-stains
might fence its ghost in.
•
“The barbed wire
complex”
I
understand.
Winged and
flattened
at the same
time, poor things!
Some leftover
specters of blood.
Remember Blake’s
figures like columns
with heads
looking around
for God?
When events are
not as random
as they seem.
•
The article of
clothing
is only half
there, it’s not full,
but when it
falls forward, it is.
Terrible
emptiness of the spread
neckline and
little sleeve.
Half-cooked
squares.
Was this
religious fire
and is this
where it passed?
Maybe they are
floating on water
of paint,
pool-sized,
blue and ridged
like foam.
You would have
to fly
to see them flat
as a map.
The rib and hem.
Rained on
for eons. Noah’s
children’s
floating forms.
•
Angels die?
It’s a
frightening-miracle
because here
they are.
The Upper God
has let them drop
like centuries
into space.
And I recognize
them!
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