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THE BIRDS WE PILED LOOSELY • ISSUE 10 • JANUARY 2017

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LIES I TELL MYSELF<br />

by Sarah Jones<br />

I’ll rise Sylvia Plath early and work this manuscript.<br />

I’ll untoggle from social media—no Instagram<br />

before noon or Facebook after 8 PM.<br />

I won’t skip the gym. I’ll skip the sugar.<br />

I won’t eat all this bacon nor will I drink<br />

another French red blend by myself.<br />

I’ll drink green tea on the patio twice a day.<br />

I won’t sext while my kids play Call of Duty<br />

in the other room. I’ll keep my shirt on<br />

during this Skype call. No more editors<br />

or poets nosing into places more than poetry.<br />

I’ll go slow—watch my skin crinkle with joy,<br />

unbotoxed. I won’t glass-slipper love or<br />

tarot-card our future again. I’ll be a Buddhist<br />

nun—toss this vibrator out for good.<br />

I’ll be productive, proactive, and more political.<br />

A no-er, though it might seem fun, to the sex greet.<br />

A yes-er to yoga. I’ll be a Bird of Paradise—long<br />

stocked with flaming hair, and hardy against the heat<br />

of another’s body. I’ll call my father and say,<br />

I’m balanced on the one leg you left me standing on.<br />

Sense of<br />

the Dance<br />

Fabrice Poussin<br />

52 53

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