We need to talk this out. So far you’ve been lovely
about my madness, and needy for this
soul of mine and exquisitely accepting.
All this lovely bacon-and-gooey-eggs
breakfast, these beans on toast has gone
to waste (I save the leftover toast for later), your
masculine side, the child’s kite, all the bullets.
Whatever I write is enigmatic.
Even all of my prose has gone mad-mad on me.
Regret shines in others. The colour of
my aura is the colour of the sunset. I smell
like expensive perfume. I’m a bird. Walls
are closing in again. My self-worth is
collapsing in on itself. The trees are new
here. I eat darkness like its bread, harvest
and seed. I taste euphoria and bleed.
You’re smoke. The paternal folk are wine and
grape juiced-mouthed. Eating thin wafers
that represent the body of Christ. Cruel
beast of a man you’re as holy as Moses,
the Sabbath. I climb mountains in my spare
time. This is how I want to remember you.
Kind and good. Humble and kind. The mistress
of the sunrise wears a shroud. She remember.
the love of you. The nothing of you. Nothing
of your face, or manliness ways. You, you
were once the love of my life. You were
once friend until you abandoned me for
another girl foe. Love can fill you up, up, up.
Spit you out, out, out. I’m imperfect. I’m
despair. You can’t touch me. You can’t
inherit me. You can’t catch me. In those
ways I’m perfect. I’ll take you places where
we can go hiking, where its summer, where
there’re tourists, safe cliffs. I’ll take you wherever
you want to go. This was meant to be the
lyrics to a song instead its turned into a poem.
The picture of you is almost complete now.
You oil death and continue to oil, oil, oil
death while I endure not being the doomed
wife. I want to remember this dance for all
of my life, for eternity if it comes to that.
Will you remain complex? Will you stay lover?
The red earthworm is eating me inside-out.
I had to cut the Valentine’s fire out of you
remember? Love lurks. Love hovers. Love
is electric-interstellar here. Novocaine for
the soul. It grows like moss. I am through
begging for your love. You’ve left hurting
scars, wounds for life. I do not know if this
was deliberate. Will you remain complicated?
Or will you leave me for once and for all
in the romantic lurch? To love, well, there’s
pleasure to be found there. Now I test the
limits of love. I finger it. It tastes sweet like
jam. This is how I cope. I taste ingredients.
Abigail George is a South African blogger at Goodreads, essayist, poet, grant, novella, and short story writer. She is the poetry editor at AfricanWriter.com and editor at Zimbabwe’s Mwanaka Media and Publishing. She has lived all her life in the Port Elizabeth area.
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