Three Poems by Abigail George

 

What is this weakness inside of me?

 

The road is a miracle

It’s dark

 

I can’t seem to find my way

The older men are nice

 

The men who are

As old as my father

 

Have intellectual discussions with me

 

The women ignore me

Their laughter tastes like mustard

 

That’s all.

Decay.

 

That’s all

that’s left of me.

 

I wait

for the mincemeat

 

to defrost

on the countertop

 

growing older

colder, more afraid.

 

 

 

A time of questioning

 

I read my future

Counting my past’s sorrows

 

Anxiety’s pre-history

Mad with erosion in my soul

 

I think I understand 

your shy tenderness now

 

The beast 

and roots and the powers

 

Of wilderness in you

Poetry is experience

 

Vertigo taught me that.

 

 

Captive

 

There is nothing to eat

But this cage, but this day

But this depressing vessel of light,

This tragic light

But even this light

Tastes like a promotion

When it rains.

Yes, when it rains

 

There is nothing but this sea

but this cell

But this dirt, but this clay

 

My dusty feet in these sandals

As I care for a child

That is not my own.

By Abigail George