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Hive Hive
by Abigail George
2018-06-24 08:33:53
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Hive
(for my mother and father)

    Stability sometimes has to make
    room for hunger. The spoils of
    war. Harvest sometimes has to
    make room for another harvest
hive0001_400in spring. The beating heart sometimes has
    to make room for another heart.
    The ripe suns in this galaxy and
    beyond have their own sense of urgency wasting away.
    Dementia is found there in the air.
Its clarity is specific. It has the concentration
    of the perfect image in focus.

The spool under a wishful current.
(of a poet-writer battling depression,
battling on to find sanity but no one
speaks of this anymore). To begin with, you flew away.
Your charm scientific. Your heart is

factual. You taught me that. The river falls.

You fall. A waterfall in your eyes.
Determined hush falls all around.
The pool is logical but also sinister.
Originally it was wild there and found in a
rural kingdom cometh. The soul
cannot change. Cannot dream. Cannot sustain itself
without the hive. The swarm in
union and within their solidarity

comes the wounded. An ill feeling of hurt
as dark as sea. I take the stitches
of this ballroom masquerade party
inside out. I don’t want to listen to
this. Hearing my parents argue into
the night. I follow the vibrations of
the news scribbling across the TV
screen. I don’t want your glitter. I
don’t want your pain, empty vessel.

    Even ripe flowers find a way to exist.
    Pollen and tension has a history that
chases down aural pathways in ancient history.
    You were unkind. You did not write
    or call when he went to rehab. I felt
    I could not dream, not sleep anymore.
    Had to take the appropriate pill to cure me.
In order not to pursue a road to madness.

***********************************************************************
Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!

 life_06_400

 


    
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