God’s will always be healing,
always purposefully crafted,
and as theology it stands on
its own. In my hands, you’re
a mountain, you are handsome,
you are perfect. You eat my pasta,
and say it’s delicious. Forget
about the past, you wild-thing
said. How could I leave you on
a wild and autumn-eyed weekend.
Watch me fade away, call you
cometh, and ark, you kiss the
waterfall of her hair, left me far
behind. I come out of the water
after paying my future tithes.
When I was a child my parents
watched pornographic material
in front of us. The breakthrough
came yesterday. The love is telling
me to leave the only home I’ve ever
known. Spies are coming out of
the driftwood. I don’t feel good
anymore, and people ignore me,
and my cries for help. Slow hands.
Take these dysfunctional hands.
Nobody loves me anyway. She
might as well be as good as dead.
She is ghost. Vincent is fasting yogi,
Rooka does not love me anymore.
I am not Ophelia going mad,
noose around my neck, I’m mouse,
am horse. I’m young, I’m German,
sleeping like the dead in a grave.
For a while I lived like the Russians,
the poets, the composers, the writers.
I lived like Tchaikovsky, Antigone,
Nietzsche, Rilke, Susan Sontag.
Abigail George is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominated South African essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist.