The philosophising social worker leaf on Monkey Island

There’s monotone snow in my mouth, melting on the
staged wasteland of my tongue. The magus continues
on his journey. He does not stop for me. Does not consider
my potential. Just the broken string, the moon in the ice,
the radar of my soul. Breakfast blooms here. Warm coffee
and buttered toast. Mayonnaise and tuna fish appear.
Something fatalistic about the day. Something killing
me inside. Just the medium of the sun. Just the planets.
Just the echoes of the sea. They’re all catalysts. Sparks.
You are weak and limited, leaf on monkey island. I try not
to think about you. Just words on this planet. Word-
gathering on a dune amongst the fairground stars lit up
by the bleak moonlight. There’s an understanding for you.
There’s a hippo in the picture. Extinction on the brink of
calamity. No one talks about the extinction of the poet’s-
poet. Landing up in the frog hospital. The mustard seeds
smell like our sibling’s perfume. She’s become a starling. She
lives among the stars. She’s become a mockingbird. She
      lives to mock us all. How did we come to this point? Did
we get here by boat, which trade route did we follow, or,
was it just the following of the disciples, of all the magi? The
ancients of old didn’t have my kind of problems. Sibling
lives out her modern dreams. So Czech of her. While she
chaperones the flowers in the garden. Sick to death of it
all, sibling left us behind. I am lost in the photograph. I
am lost in the fields of bees. Of mist. I am lost in the letters
my father left behind. I am lost in a lonely ark. Never to
return to a normal reality again before a glacial meltdown
of epidemic proportions. I was never as coolly beautiful as
you. More a drowned thing. More of a ghost story. I was
more the clever experiment. Take me on primitive. I am in
hot pursuit of the pursuit of memory. I am falling to you.
You are leaving me. I can feel it in my blood. Even my veins
are calling to you. I call you the land that borders on God.
You call me mentally ill. So, off to the lighthouse we go, female
writing and the bipolar mood and impulse. Good morning
abuse, you have never looked more beautiful to me. There’s
      sadness there. Breathing lessons in the Paris of the wild, in
the darkness of the wilderness. Pick up the driftwood. Drag it
to the cave of the bears. The hunting bears. The gathering
bears. Everybody loves her. The flowers grow like flame in
the snow. Take me away from here so I won’t come home
again. There’s the sea. But I don’t see anything anymore. I
don’t feel safe. All I see is the night falling to you, to where
you are, to where your breath is. I imagine what married life
is when I look at my parents. My mother’s war of a cold
mouth. Darkness turns neon out. Girl is lost. Cannot be found anywhere,
anymore. She is dead to the world. I wish that someone
would break my fall. I can’t see anything. I can’t feel anything
anymore. There is a flame in the monster’s hand. I am trying
to run from it, but find I can’t. Sibling is a sick darling. She
lives the dream world of the female outsider. I bite my lip. It begins
to bleed like those kinds of wounds do. And so, we live in a
kind of condemned world, if we live for truth. So, I take my pills
and dress. Wait for anxiety to show up, and make waves. I think
I’ve said that before. I think that I have. I have. I have. I have.

Abigail George is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominated South African essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist.

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