Young innocent (majority).
A head filled with grace
And mercy. As tender as
The night. This is my flesh.
He is my flesh. This is my
Blood. He is my blood.
A molten doorway into a
Majority of slippery fat
Ghost knots. Ripples of
Aloes in a mecca. A life of
Skin swimming against skin.

My scars are as cold to me
As snow found in a field.
Their wounded bodies
Have made me an interloper
In society. I have a pale fire
Inside of me. Sand in the
Palms of my hands. Fame
Is like a starving volcano inside
My ruby heart. Fame is like

A water diary. Fame is like
Carrion inside the grapefruit
Of my heart. Even my scars
Have songs. This I will
Teach everyone who wants
To be taught about such things.
All night I walk through
Valleys. Up mountains. The
Iron and the religion of
The sun spills over into the
Crux, the inner drive, and

Motivation of the horizon. A girl sees
Everything in her future life
When a boy holds her hand
For the first time and when he kisses her
Spring blossoms
In her soul again.

First invention. Let me navigate
my way through the starvation of the onset of
winter’s frost at the new windows.
Berries. The spell cast by boy. I
fear walking in the footsteps of the
consistently beautiful poem. The
natives cram the judgement and self-pity
of family matters into their brains.
Second gift. The infinite loop of
the autumn leaf leans into the sunlight.
Now I have to navigate through faint
whispers of light eternal. Third gift.

Then there is love everlasting. The love
that is eternal. Sleepwalk if you must
through the slipping folds of his map
songs. In my dreams while I lick words
into shape. Laments, odes, sonnets,
their alliterative wings exquisite are
beating inside of my heart. His stars that
do come out at night worship at the
epic people of the river. I am writing
my first love poem. It empties itself
out of me on fire. The day leans into the bride

of the sun. Look, look! Look at me. I am
writing my first love poem. He risks nothing
because he has nothing to lose. Nothing
to venture. I risk everything. I have
everything to lose. Grace. Hope. His
handsome father’s teeth are stained by
coffee and cigarettes. The bones in me
speak to me in snatches. My flesh seems to
vibrate beneath the sun. These vibrations
come in waves that spark and splutter,
whine and nag. They’re ill. Sick with
glitter bombs, with ideas, and rage, and flux.

They sing and dance. Dragonflies are Lilliputian
drunkards on summer life. Their language
very much a self-portrait of a forbidden
mystery like love. Look, look! Look at me!
I am writing my first love poem. A
happy poem. See nothing is impossible
and the world is new again. Even in the
gloomy spaces of winter there is life in
its beginning stages. I keep finding poems in a poem.
As I find them I gather them to me.

Abigail George’s writing has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, most recently at SENTINEL LITERARY QUARTERLY and in MY AFRICA MY CITY: AN AFRIDIASPORA ANTHOLOGY (AFRIDIASPORA, NOVEMBER 2016). She has two books available as free e-downloads from Ovi Magazine: Finland’s English Online Magazine’s Bookstore ( She writes from Port Elizabeth, Eastern Cape, South Africa.

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