OPENING PANDORA’S BOX IN YOUR THIRTIES
There’s a loss to the windswept
day. The waves beautiful but I
do not want to go into the water.
Feel it against my skin. I’m afraid I might
Drown in all of that memory. That
sly work. I feel I might get tangled
Up in the seaweed and never come
up for air again. Perhaps I will hit
My head against driftwood and lose consciousness.
I remember you touching my face.
It was only a moment. Now it’s a
memory and there’s a loss to the day.
It’s you. It’s you. The light as if from
birthday candles are punishing. You’re
a man. Thunder. Wolf-like and unhappy.
I’m a woman. Lightning. In other words
an angel. But I am also unhappy. How
to solve this elegantly. I wanted to hide
from the world. (In other words,) from
you. You’re poetry. Poetry. I say this
as if I have never experienced
Tigers of lust, pleasure, the suffering
Of pain. I loved you. Even though you were
Cold to me afterwards. I like to remember that.
You’re with another now. She’s more
woman. Less girl.
IN THAT PLACE, SOMETHING HAPPENED
Please read this!
I wish that he would read my poems
And fall in love
with them. That his hand would
touch the page
as if to make his
own despair and
into thin air like
smoke and mist.
He has made me
feel that way.
No escaping or
getting around it.
How lofty it is to fall in love.
You’re the wall.
You’re the wire.
I’m afraid I am
Life is complicated
Like a dream.
The dream of you.
The sun exposed
you. You confessed on a shiny day.
I’m good at waiting. For marriage.
For the boyfriend
to make his return.
For infertility to
turn itself into
warmth is complex.
Where is it coming
from? It is coming
from your shirt.
Taste. Smell. Sight.
Your open hands.
You can be dramatic but I want your
YOU REMIND ME OF A BOLLYWOOD MOVIE STAR
I long for diary entries.
To find you there
As if you never
Went missing in action
After all these years.
You’re in the lost and found box or am I in the wrong.
I’m in danger of losing you
Once again and I have an appetite
For this winter light.
This feeling that I have
Inside of me is fear.
Fear that I am in danger of
Calling you up again
On the telephone,
Fear of being alone for
The rest of my life.
Listening to silence
On the other end of
The line. You, the butcher
Stringing me along as if
I was a side of beef.
You’re just being you, an actor in a film.
I wish I could sink my
Teeth into you again
Like I once did and taste flesh,
Blood, hair, light, salt.
I can’t be happy just with me,
On my own anymore.
Poems © Abigail George
Image: Alessio Lin via Unsplash.com (cropped)