The Arrival of the Paper Tiger Empress

My wild
‘Sargasso’ sea
Is a heaven
That loves only me
And the accomplished.
Saboteurs’ pillow talk
Like Assia Wevill’s and Jean Rhys’s
Plant their airs-and-graces
Inches from it.
This is their playground.

Gills do not matter.
The possibilities of fish.
The catch of the day.
Fishermen and nets.
The bridegroom’s turf.
One is a poet. The other a writer.
They’ve both
Had three marriages.
Lived in London.
Drank champagne fizz.

But nothing
Boughs down
As it seems on the surface
Tension of things.
Their landscape
Is a swimming pool
Promising certain death.
A drowning in a lake.
Is the name of the game
A task that means business?

It is not to survive at all.
Feeling blue is an illusion.
In the grim end the gas and the gin
It will give way to illumination.
Like a little earth, the cold.
Revisiting a bench in a park.
And anything celestial, ochre.
There’s theology in everything.
Like a Connecticut
Station wagon.

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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1 Response to The Arrival of the Paper Tiger Empress

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