Abigail George: Winter clothes lost in translation

winter walk
Image by Şahin Sezer Dinçer from Pixabay

Winter clothes lost in translation

The throne that is called
a tree’s shiny leaves.
I let its itchy arms hold
me close. Bring closure
to the cold-heartedness
of winter. The winter guests
Of leaves, of lighthouses,
of foreclosure. Then, only
then will I happily toil
this earth for you until
the end of the world.
Until death comes for
me or eternity. I’m not
tired yet. I want to stay up
and watch the sun rise.
Waiting for the future.
Waiting for ghost matter.
Plants to grow in the earth
that I’ve toiled for you.
Putting my heart aside.


Excuse me, it’s my fault. I don’t know how to love you

The nights aren’t warm
anymore. There’s an autumn
chill outside of my bedroom.
It’s planting season.
So my brother does what
Any man does in the planting season.
Dirt under his fingernails.
His sweater smells like rain.
I smile. I laugh. I watch him
through the kitchen window.
I make him endless cups
of coffee. I want to make
him happy because damn
if I know how to love him, or you,
or anyone else for that matter.


A flood always comes with change

Religion is golden.
It is another far-off city.
I’m a Christian so
I can’t do that. I don’t
smoke cigarettes because
my body is a temple,
and stars always seem
to silence me. It’s in
me to find a voice for them. I can’t wish ill on another person.
Can’t wish revenge on
them. That it’s a dish
best served cold. All I
can do is believe in the
sweetness of human life.
The best of humanity.
I know that I am not responsible
for your wings. For
you being lost In translation.
You’re beautiful anyway.
We’re Christians but when
We’re flying off the handle
we’re also sisters, Daughters,
losing our religion.


I almost inherited the rain when it came

Childhood is brief. It is
making me grow smaller
and smaller. I see the two of us
In photographs. Posing,
Laughing our heads off.
Our childhood was brief
But it was brilliant. I showered
Your face with kisses.
The backyard was the wilderness filled with tigers
And snakes. Wild tigers,
and poisonous snakes that we had to catch.
Pretend to kill. You’re
always giving me a speech
now. Lecturing me on my
potential. I always say I love you
At the end of our conversations
Through the whirring
loophole of the telephone.

Poems © Abigail George

Image by Şahin Sezer Dinçer from Pixabay

About the author

Abigail George

Abigail George’s fiction was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She briefly studied film at Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg. She is the recipient of grants from the National Arts Council, Johannesburg, Centre for the Book in Cape Town, and ECPACC (Eastern Cape Provincial Arts and Culture Council) in East London. She has been widely published from Australia, to Finland to Nigeria, and New Delhi, India to Istanbul, Turkey and Wales.
Her blog African Renaissance can be found online in Modern Diplomacy under Topics.
She contributed for a year to a symposium on Ovi Magazine: Finland’s English Online Magazine. She is a poet, fiction writer, feminist thinker, essayist, and a blogger at Goodreads.

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