I sit here writing  
and the words seem to pour out  
of me effortlessly  
 
but as soon as they  
leave the vessel that contains  
my body I freeze 
 
Rays  
branch out of my fingertips.  
I become like a tree.  
 
I  
turn into a cloud animal  
and then I remember you.  
 
You are not here. Not  
in my life world anymore. 
You could be as far  
 
away as Cambodia. You  
could be in the Philippines, and I think  
to myself do you think of me  
 
at all? You’re the rot found  
in driftwood eating away at its 
core, you could be at the centre  
 
of the sun harming the  
volcano burst in my eyes. You’re seed 
and I am harvest. You are a  
 
season planted in my vision  
growing cold. You’re moth-smoke, 
trellis-yielding apricot 
 
blemish. I would have  
been a bad mother. The grain of rice sticks 
to the pot lid. The day is  
 
ceremonial and announces  
itself. It offers me a prairie-clean mango. 
I am solo in wilderness. 
 
You will find me there 
where the light bends between art 
and the seduction theory 
 
that is necessary and integrated. 
The chill in my fingertips is inspired 
and fractured. I am filled with 
 
loss, hope, longing, grief. The  
awareness of it all weighing me down. 
Doing yoga in moonlight. 
 
I watch the clock. 
It is enough for me to watch the clock, to gaze at the wall, 
to pretend that you are still here. 
 
I stand cathedral tall.  
The blue fashions me out of clay and  
you greet me as I meet air. 
 
You, bird. Oracle to the stars. 
The expanse is a telescope, the nothingness is 
shoreless. I pretend you did  
 
not give me love, never 
made me feel love for myself. I sit away, 
plant seed and wait for it to harvest. 

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