“Lines Found In A Black Croxley Notebook” by Abigail George

Daylight is merely
repetition. Fear too. Mania
days deserve their dress rehearsal too.
The project management
style of Elijah and
Job are housed there.
Chapters of swimmers
worshipping their childhood summers.
She was my videotape.
She was my pursuit.
Now age and infirmity surfaces
intent on possession.
Underneath the sea
I wrote a letter to myself.
Called it poetry.
I’m turning into
my mother and
I am loving every minute of it.
Every make-believe,
imaginary, flying
on the seat of fear’s pants
minute of it. She
came from the Johannesburg people.
The tribe of girls who
played tennis but to
me she was a closed
book. In her presence
I wore a blindfold.
Daily she was my assassin.
She’s electric.
A rose in each cheek. Stars in her hair.
She burns me up.

Reading to me
was like eating.
Eating spaghetti
bolognaise on
a rainy day. I never thought of asking
her if she liked
to read poetry (my poetry).
She was always
a stranger to me.
A beautiful stranger
with elegant limbs meant for climbing.
My poetry
was like a heady broth to me.
A meat tea
with a hint of an open door.

Pushcart Prize nominated Abigail George is a South Africa-based blogger, essayist, poet and writer. She briefly studied film at the Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg. She is the recipient of two grants from the National Arts Council, the Centre for the Book, and ECPACC.