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Abigail George: Winter clothes lost in translation

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

Abigail George
Abigail Georgehttps://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5174716.Abigail_George/blog
South African Abigail George is a blogger, essayist, short story writer, screenwriter, novelist, and poet. She briefly studied film in Johannesburg. She has two film projects in development and is the recipient of two grants from the National Arts Council, one from the Centre for the Book and another from ECPACC. Her publishers are Tendai Rinos Mwanaka (Zimbabwe, Mwanaka Media and Publishing or Mmap), Xavier Hennekinne (Australia/New Zealand, Gazebo Books), and Thanos Kalamidas (Finland, Ovi). Her literary representative is Morten Rand. She is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net nominated, and European Union Poetry Prize longlisted poet. Her poem “The Accident” was Identity Theory's Editor's Choice for Spring. Ink Sweat and Tears chose her poem “When light poured into me at the swimming pool” as a September Pick of the Month, and she recently made the shortlist of the Writing Ukraine Prize 2023. She is a poet/writer who believes in the transformative, restorative and healing powers of words. Her latest book is Letter To Petya Dubarova (Australia/New Zealand, Gazebo Books). Young Galaxies (a poetry book) was released in 2023 from Mmap and a memoir When Bad Mothers Happen is forthcoming. “Clarissa, Hector and Septimus Redefined” was recently published by Novelty Fiction in Kindle format.

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