(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)


If, if, I cease to exist, or co-exist in your
world, suffering is progress. Flesh museum.
Bone museum. Open to interpretation.

The caves are over there, breathing. It is important
that you know this. This information.

I think of you in moonlight. I think of you
when vodka spills from our glasses
onto the shoreline of the carpeted floor.

Onto my lovely dress. Onto the fabric of
my skin. My body cannot keep all of this down
under the ancient pink. Hurt has stunned

me. Un-healed me. Wounded me. I know
your anger. Your kind of superiority. Your self-hatred.
It is only a reflection from youth. A twisted

crack in the system that is called illusion.
It is only ritual that will mark you until the
end of time. There’s a lot to disguise.

A violin does not only make beautiful
music. Photographs make me long for something
we once had. I was no bride. Had no

groom like my mother once did. I wish
I could be beautiful like the tribe of her.
Instead the ocean calls to me. Embraces

all of me. My lithe limbs are green, then
purple. Yes, the ocean calls to me like a
lover. This morning image secret. I’m

homeward. Tracking driftwood into
the house.
On the outside, you will find me there. And,

as the waves come in explosions, so
does the healing. So, does Jean Rhys’
Dominica. So, does Brazil. So, does China.




Pushcart Prize-nominated Abigail George is a South African-based blogger, essayist, poet, novella and short story writer. Recipient of two grants from the National Arts Council in Johannesburg, one from the Centre for the Book in Cape Town, and another from ECPACC in East London. She briefly studied film.

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