He beat her black and blue when he was drunk
(or)
Old Brown Sherry lullaby
On Friday nights, we would go to Spur and order steak,
well-done. His treat
He gave me a diary and pocket money
His daughter would go shopping every day. She’d ask
me what I wanted. I’d say, bacon kips
and rum & raisin ice cream. They were my favourite
but he beat my aunt night after night after night
until she was black and blue and senseless
He beat her with blue murder in his veins
and his red, pockmarked cheeks when he was out of control
She hid in my bedroom, hiding her face
but I could hear her crying in the dark
She would drink beer in the afternoon, always by herself
She drank her sadnesses away, until her face was puffy and red
She’d throw the empty cans outside. Those psychotic butterflies,
I would hear them fall through the air, into the grass.
Hitting the ground with a bang and a loud crash
I would stand by my bedroom window
where she couldn’t see me, waiting. Just waiting
Sometimes they would get drunk together
But every Friday night, we’d go to Spur, his treat
We’d order anything that we wanted on the menu
My aunt wouldn’t hide her bruises, her black eyes,
her swollen lip with make-up. She’d stay at home
while the four of us, my cousins, my uncle and I
ate sticky ribs and fried onion rings, and well-done steak
*****
For the daughter I never had
You’re a bird. You have wings. The early bird
catches the fattest worm. She said boat, not ark.
I corrected her. Even the sky has bones made
of tears, made of stars, made of water, made
of longing, made of important documents. You’re
an angel. Look at all those angels in the window,
crossing the street, just walking by. The child, the child,
is outspoken. The language of fingers, resistance.
Look at my muscles, you said, innocently. I hurt
your feelings, you said. Your face, sour. No, don’t
brush my hair. I can do it. It’s not a bogeyman. Just
a shadow. Your hair is like a fern. Now you are
running away. You can’t catch me. Nah! Nah! Nah!
Nah! We stand on the riverbank. The bathwater is
getting cold. Your fingers, prunes. The glass falls
from your hands, and breaks. Something inside of me
shifts, gives way. You mind your feet while I pick up
the shiny fragments that reflect the television, the moonglow,
and your face. My mother watches us from where she
hides in the ceiling. She picks guavas for the people
who knock at the door for bread while we dance to
Stevie Wonder and Motown. We boogie. We shake.
While children starve, you eat a hamburger, while a
child dies of hunger in Sudan, we boogie. We shake.
We get down on it. We feast on pink apples, soda, slices
of pizza, and I help you brush your teeth. Before you
go to bed, I read you a bedtime story while other children
are malnourished and are in dire need of milk.
They become a World Health Organisation statistic. While
you refuse to eat your carrots, civilians are ambushed
and killed. I pour honey into your hands, and you eat it, innocently,
your sun, brave, your fingers, not malnourished, your mouth
tasting the nourishing sweetness. Your eyes are brown, like mine.
There are maps and sheet music when we look hard enough in the clouds. There
must be sheet music or a map that will help us declare world peace.
*****
Drinking whiskey with my father
My brother puts ice in the glasses
He hands a glass to my father
And then one to me. My brother turns the meat,
Cigarette in his mouth.
He is the expert on financial matters
Double major at Wits
My brother is the braai expert
We drink whiskey in the hot garden
We don’t say much
This is before the diagnosis
Before the CT scan
Before the radiation therapy
Before Rehana, the receptionist at Cancer Care
Before Charelle, at Bay Radiology
These days, I still drink too much coffee
To keep me awake
My father told me this morning that he likes
Animal biscuits. I never knew that
His body is like the Dead Sea
Underneath the blankets
He is just resting, he says
I think of happier days
Drinking whiskey with my father
The glass was cold from the ice cubes
Our faces turn brown in the sun
That sun is a ghost now
He’s cold. Can I get him another blanket?
I cover him. I cover him with my love
As best I can. As best I can
Is that better, I ask? Yes, he says. Yes
I’m tired, he says. I’m just resting
And so, I leave him. I leave him to rest
I leave the Dead Sea of his body
My tears turn into sadness that turns into a river
It flows out of the doorway, and it turns the cream tiles into winter grass
To the kitchen, where I make coffee
He can’t drink coffee anymore, so I make him green tea
These days, we don’t have much to say.
*****
Poems (c) Abigail George
Image: Tony Chen Unsplash remixed