For every woman, hard at work at being a ‘Marilyn Monroe’

She came to me in a dream. This is what
she said in so many words. ‘My life so far
has been a dream’. She loved music. It was
September. Her face was the face of love.
She had ruined all women for men for eternity.
Blue peacock feathers. Habitat’s mission
statement. Nature grows outside on trees. Inside
the continent of the ice house she thought
she was safe from day. Abandonment. Understanding self. Consciousness.
Skating on the human lake, that thin ice of ego.
She was in a minority. Found herself in the
shape of an angel. Before September. She
stepped into the light. Pure writing became
her. Thank goodness for rituals. Tea and
breadcrumbs. She found herself eating skinny.
Skinny roast chicken with the best of them.
Although she worshiped being on her own.
There is always a season of waiting. When
we cannot withstand the pressure of innermost depression.
And so, we light up the room. Even silence.
I wanted to remember her the way the
world remembered her. The landscape
that inspired her exit. She could never
be just dust. Ashen. For all of my life she was a
bright star. I would worship her. Her world
washed away my sins. Did she ever find peace?

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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