A Model Woman
She set out to become a model woman. It was what her mother taught her. But her mother’s models were rooted in the past, mannequins really and no longer in vogue, so her attempts were confused. Conformity was the issue but to which age, which youth should she conform now or then. It took her a long time, a lifetime. A lifetime of making up, of trying on and discarding, a lifetime of self discovery, a lifetime to throw away the wigs and become herself. First published in Nine Muses Press, November 7 2019 A Question of Identity On her 90th birthday she looked in the mirror and tried to identify the face looking back. She felt the same as ever but the face, that was the mystery how could she connect the two, how she felt and how she looked. Perhaps a mystic would tell her that the face had been through the fire of life, but so had everything that made up her identity, or more accurately, her multiple identities, different ones for every occupation, every relationship and every situation. The ones foisted on her by parents were soon rejected and replaced by the ones she made up for herself, different identities but always the same person, easily recognised but not in that mirror but something to celebrate. First published in Bourgeon Online, Fall 2022 On A Sunny Sunday It was a sunny Sunday, a perfect day. So he dressed them in their Sunday best and they went to the park to play on the swings and roundabouts. My father. My half brother and sister on a sunny Sunday. They were surprised to meet her as they walked home. They were surprised to see that she was carrying a suitcase. They were surprised when she said goodbye. They didn’t believe it so they went home to their new council house to wait. She never came back. It had not been a happy home. She could be violent. But it was their home. She never came back. So they moved to his parents where they were only grudgingly accepted. It was not a happy move but it was the best he could do. Sometimes on a sunny Sunday she would leave the hospital, escape in search of her family. But they never found each other again. First published in Nightingale And Sparrow, Heat issue, Summer 2019 The Skin I'm In I used to wonder how I would grow and yet still fit in the skin I'm in. If we would grow together, me and my skin. Well, we seemed to have done quite well for a long time. I used to wonder how you would grow, and if you would still fit the skin you are in. And if we would grow together and stay intact in our separate skins. Well, we seemed to have done, for a long time anyway. Now I wonder… Am I still the same person under the skin? Are you? I think I am. The outside has changed. But inside my skin I am intact. Myself as before. I think. Not quite so comfortable in my new skin, though. It doesn't fit me too well. Doesn't always represent me. Doesn't look like I still feel. Like I still am? What about you? Are you still that person in your new skin? I'm not sure now if the inside has also been renewed, changed. And if it is only on the outside, that we have changed together. First published in Anti Heroin Chic 2016 Spinning I’m spinning a sphere of mirrored glass and I’m seeing my world differently. Upside down. Round and round. Making me dizzy. But perhaps it was always upside down and spinning out of control in any case. Perhaps. Perhaps it always will be. First published in Scarlet Leaf Review, January 2017
Bio: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
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