September 25, 2023

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.

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