Rebirth/
(The Other Me Who Sent a Man to War)
I am the young woman in the photograph
with mousy brown hair and spectacles. I am
the owl found in the bloom of the universe.
I am the nurse at the Mercantile inheriting the
bird in the nest. I am sad in her eyes. One
button missing off a shirt, a drop of Jupiter. I
am a coral bead carried around in her mouth.
Hope was found in the circle of her waist. I am the
face of love. Terminal days pass through me.
The sunlight girl. I am a meditation of sorts. I
am silent. I am the law of day coming into
being. I am a country that loves the people closest
to me. The bird murmurs. Ruffles its feathers.
I look at the other me who sent a man to war.
I am from the ocean. I sip a cup of black tea.
You bird splitting the cloud. Your
city exists like pouring rain. Your particle is
stoned. Your atom is broken. You inhabit memory.
You speak. You were alone and clinging. Your horse.
You breathe. You slightly inhale. Exhale
slowly. Your dahlia bulb. You are imperfect. You are
kerfuffle. You are energy. Your illusion. You bird
road. You transport. Your map. Your house.
You shelter. You do not know love. You fear it.
You fear to love. You do not love aloud. Know
anything about it? You do not give yourself
away. You go in search of love everywhere.
I look at the other me who sent a man to war.
I am going to pilot this ship. I guess we’re the
most beautiful in youth burning wood. Lit.
The man sips a cup of black tea. He came to
the house to see if I was wife material. Send a
man to war but send a woman to the negotiating
table. The man was a lion. A lion eating the
dust of the colonial masters. The house is quiet
and all I can think of is death. Dying. My death.
Everybody is asleep but I am wide awake. The
dream of dust. The lull of botany. The death of
dust. May it flow into your bones and deliver a
harvest. Tragedy came before the triumph. Sometimes
we have to embrace the pain to inherit the family.
I look at the other me who sent a man to war.
Then, I am primal. Then, I am an animal. Then,
I am a cloud. Then, I am a lunatic spinning a web of
sabotage and self-destructive behaviour. Then
I’m an addict to all the clauses found in the feast
of night. Water was pure when the rain came early
morning. Goliath strong. There’s nothing romantic
about bipolar. That blue journey. Artistic muse
defunct. The air is so hot and dry today. I can feel
it in my bones. It’s introverted. Like the sea air.
The gull has quiet courage. Then, I roar. Boredom
has always been a compass for me. Bone and ink.
Ink is my private property. Bone sanctuary learned.
I look at the other me who sent a man to war.
———–
Poem © Abigail George
Image: Taylor Deas-Melesh on Unsplash (modified)