Beast in the kitchen –
Drowned thing with her rosary.
At war with the roast.
Throne. Ghost. Leaf. All guests.
Pale. Ancestral bloodlines – a clever-experiment
Beach-life. A green-ish plate.
Swimming towards velvet rays of light.
A child’s-laugh (bees). Sea mist.
Jasmine passion – reel.
Flowers in a lonely mind.
Illness for breakfast.
Children underfoot –
There is traffic in my house.
Toy guns. Cowboy hats.
After leaving Mr. Muirhead
Alleys. Streets. Wolves. Sheep.
The shores-of-Johannesburg do not smell like anything-like-Malibu.
It’s primitive living-for-sale.
The weather that day. Rain and-then-it-stopped.
Flesh. Skin-on-skin’s-compass. Perfume. And more rain.
Keys to not buying post-apartheid things.
To the lighthouse soul.
To Sappho, Antigone’s divine-ceremony.
Go fishing in rifts.
It’s losing its darkness
Something is damaged –
There is a richness in dust – mother-tongue.
Post-apartheid things. Compasses.
You are a typhoon –
Waves in the folds of daylight.
Childhood stars are past.
Shade in my bedroom
The end of violence –
The world’s feast is not my home.
The heart of worship.
Inside a public library
I am the June guest –
Greedy for ritual. Sonnets.
Success for personal growth
Orlando’s river –
Habits of tsunamis past.
What remains is life.
I read as a child –
In books, there are valleys. Hills.
Worlds were within reach.
Winner of America.
Paper tigers ghosts.
© Abigail George