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Izzi Seale

Spring, 2017

Imagine a sunset

it’s seven o’clock

and the birth of night

is filled with cries of call to prayer.

The muezzin’s melodies sing to me;

I can’t understand what he’s saying

but I hear the feeling in his voice,

and I hum hum hum along.

Imagine a sunset;

red light bouncing off golden desert dunes

flooding the picture with red,

and I’m drowning,

swimming in the rose tinted world.

And I sit on a park bench.

Surrounded by strangers;

except the girl my mum tells me to stay away from.

Her curly hair bouncingwith every step

she takes.

She dances for us,

mostly for the boys;

she sways her hips along

to the song of her religion

and she pulls her top up

to show her midriff

And the boys call her haram.

We drag on Marlboro reds

and feel the sting of the nicotine

as we suck through lit cigarettes.

I ask if there’s booze-the general consensus is a no for now.

We’ll find some later,

or rely on Arabic herb to give us the rush we crave.

It doesn’t really matter to me.

I’ll get drunk on new found friendships.

Imagine a set sun

kissing only the horizon

and the rest of the sky is a

blanket of blue

lit up by the city lights.

It’s eight o’clock

and the night has moved on past

sucking cigarettes

and sipping energy drinks.

Now we’re sipping at

stolen vodka

and in between

the stolen sips

I chat to an American.

He talks away at me

about 90s slashers

and his dreams to direct one one day

and I pretend he will.

Imagine your first kiss with a girl;

my curly haired friend,

my hand stuck in the ringlets of her hair

we’re sat on a living room sofa,

nine o’three,

in a room full of friends

who, two hours ago were strangers.

We were tipsy on vodka and attention,

and decided to put on a show

so we could get drunk on the male gaze.

And we did.

My lips met with three more mouths

that evening,

thirsty for more, more, more attention.

Until I was wasted.

Imagine the first morning

back in school.

I was hungover from the attention.

Chinese whispers tiptoed across the hallway,

murmuring twisted truths

of what I had done.

Despite the rumours of fellatio,

there were

echoes of one-word bouncing off



Izzi is a teacher and recovering Smiths fan who is rekindling her teenage coping mechanism of writing poetry. She grew up in the UAE and a lot of her work is inspired by her childhood and teenage years there.


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