By Abigail George
Love is an echo from my distant past; it has bewitched
the deep of my soul. I’m living in a cage. It is swell, and
ancient, and beautiful there, except that I’m longing to
see my love. Your name is horizontal, your love is like a
disease, and all I want is pleasure. This is the end of
tenderness and inspiration. This is the end of lust, and
silence is translated into the accompaniment of joy, and
these books are singing to me joyfully. In the bedroom,
it is night and day, and I think of Joe Biden. How strong
and handsome he is, how he buried a son. How I did
not bury my dead great-uncle who hung himself from
the rafters of an outside toilet. This is what the world is
coming to. There’s tenderness in the break of day, the
breaking of the waves, the sure vibrations in them, the
vigour of the sun. And all I can think of is death;
death by suicide, and how there are no photographs of
my paternal grandfather’s siblings. Dennis was a ruffian
and died a ruffian’s death. His daughters were blonde
and now they are dead, too. The root of the flame is found
in space, and environment, and cause, and the issue of
blood. I know everything there is to know about the issue
of blood. I carry endometriosis inside me, as much the
same way I carry infertility. Lenny, come back. Dennis,
come back. Winifred and Bea, let down your ringlets. I
want to go to Jamestown. I want to go to Saint Helena. I want
to find myself there amongst Napoleon’s flora and fauna.
Award-winning short story writer South African, Abigail George, is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net nominated, European Union Poetry Prize longlisted, Writing Ukraine Prize shortlisted, Identity Theory’s Editor’s Choice, Ink Sweat and Tears September Pick of the Month poet/writer who believes in the transformative, restorative and healing powers of words.