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The day I learnt self
was once spelled selbaz I realised my lexicon was full
of fickle male lyrebirds, stealing
chainsaw refrains and shutter clicks for their mates
and that warships are she’s because
they’re grand and ineffable and because
captains are men and men
want women, even though ships
have no genitals nor lips
to protest it.

And in class we’re told that they
is too potent to be wielded
by a person alone, because subject-verb
agreement cares not for self, you’re either
he or she or error
and errors make people uncomfortable
And then we are taught to squirm
when such errors are made.

Because my card says F
and my body lies, she,
spelled from G A T C,
and they all answer, she, she, she
as if words in libraries could orchestrate the building of cities
as if Alexandria were an armoury
as if I were a ship.

Are you a girl or a boy? asks a pair of bright
pink lips. “I am a girl
a girl,” I parrot
“and I like dolls
because of my karyotype”

But I have not been able to bring myself
to wear a dress
to wear my double X
for a decade

and I’m just a liar
liar
lyrebird
speaking stolen words
but the one that lays the eggs
without his pharyngeal virtuosity.



Amari Low (a.k.a. Circlejourney) is a Singaporean artist and writer currently based in Australia. Neurodivergent, nonbinary, and growing up in a country where identities are assigned rather than discovered, their life has always lain at a tideline between authority and individuality, between who they are and who others think they are. They are fascinated with how subjective experiences sit amid scientific knowledge, and their work often explores the connections and frictions between the two. Amari can be followed at twitter.com/circlejourney, and a collection of their writing can be found at lowamari.tumblr.com.
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4 Dec 2023

“Ask me something only I would know.” You say this to your wife because you know you’re human. You can feel it in the familiar ache in your back, and the fear writhing in your guts. You feel it in the cold seeping into your bare feet from the kitchen floor. You know you’re real because you remember.
now, there is the shape...humanoid, but not / necessarily human
He came from a salt mine that used to be solid all the way through
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