Skin
I wash his body
I wash my father’s back
And not the back of a lover
In the bathroom of a hotel
As I once did once upon a time
When I was in my twenties
Young, innocent, free, beautiful
But the fact of the matter is
I did not see myself as a being
Or a creature who was young,
innocent, free or beautiful
Now I am older
I have lost my personal freedom
Now I am in a cage
I am free to go at any stage
But I stay
I stay
Because I am a daughter
Because I am good
I stay because I have been taught the language of sacrifice
I stay because I have a responsibility
I wash my father
I towel dry his body
I rub lotion on his legs
I help him dress
I give him his medication
Coffee, something to eat
While he eats
I drink coffee and have
Something to eat
And so our day begins
I wash the sins of his past
Off his skin
The skin that belonged
To his father and all who came before him
The skin of this mother
Of all who came before her
I wipe the stigma out of his face
I rinse the soap out of his hair
All the while remembering his tears
His relapses
His hospitalizations
What an education this is,
This journey and phase of my life is
And how astounding all the bonds of love are.
He grows weaker
I grow stronger,
More invincible,
Vastly superior
By the day
And somehow I must make sense of that
Somehow I must accept that
Somehow I must survive.
——
Don’t you forget about me, pinky swear promise me, R.
I’m sick, R.
It’s my kidneys
(they don’t
work so nicely
anymore) and
my heart and
so sometimes
I get tired. So, so
tired. Today was
one of those
days. You’re
two-years-old so
you don’t really
understand
but I’m telling
you anyway so
that you’ll
understand one day
So, today you
weren’t mine
So, today you
didn’t belong
to me. Your
father kept you
hidden from me.
You didn’t
sing for me. We
didn’t watch
television together.
I didn’t
cook for you.
I was crazy, he
said. I felt no
shame. Many
people had
called me that. I
sat in my bedroom
as your father
shouted at me.
Where’s the food?
He screamed, as
he walked down
the passage
with you in his arms
You do goddam
nothing in this
house. It didn’t
matter. Nothing
mattered. Only
the composer
Maurice Ravel.
I could feel him
in my bones, you
know? He was
shielding
me from my
brother’s gaze.
Lifting me towards
the foam of the
sea threatening
to engulf me via
the ceiling . Oh,
you’ll see. You’ll forget
me. Just like
other family members,
just like my mother
on my birthday, the
church, the
Johannesburg
People. This
memory of
isolation is so
deep. Today
you didn’t ask for
me but that
didn’t make me cry
It was, forget
about her, she’s
crazy, (I mean
what kind of man
says that
to a two year old.)
Soon I’ll disappear,
vanish like chocolate
into thin air. There’s
no key that can fit
into the cage
of my heart
anymore. Shush.
Close your eyes.
Go to sleep. I
am only a dream.
He screams and
screams. The man
screams and
screams at me
but all I can hear
is Olga Scheps and
Maurice Ravel. Look!
I am turning
into a pianist,
a composer. They’re
standing for me
like they stood for
Beethoven. There’s
no more pain.
Everything that
I do is still wrong
but there’s no more
pain. There’s no
longer a cage in
front of and behind
me, an order and
routine of isolation.
——
Poetry (c) Abigail George
Photo: Arturo Castaneyra Unsplash
lovely poems
“To create is to live twice.”
Albert Camus
Even loveliness comes from pain. Even loveliness cannot completely detach itself from pain. Pain itself is not just a wound that a reader puts their sticky fingers in. Pain is not just a bird, a gull flying solo above the white sands of the beach. To a poet, pain means many things. It is a major thing, never minor. And, yet, when the poetry emerges there is loveliness, a lovely work of art, but I also want the reader to remember, there was also pain. For pain and beauty exist alongside each other in a strange reality. Who does the poet write for, for the reader, for the audience, for the world or for the wounded self, for their broken heart? Thank you Adam. This is the job of the poet. To create loveliness out of pain. It is the job of the poet to be a prophet for the times, to fill a hole filled with pursuits and blueprints that are not noble. The pathway of the poet is a virtuous path. It is not just enough to be wounded, beauty must come from it too, from genuine mental pain.