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Visitations from the most primitive woman Visitations from the most primitive woman
by Abigail George
2019-02-13 09:58:29
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(for mum, dad, Vincent, Babs, Max)

   Peri-spinach (a constellation/s)
   alongside fried onions. Layers.

And martyrs. Stars out.

    Livers as stringy as a goulash not cooked
    long enough on the stove. In love and war
    there are rooms filled with silence. Silence
    and dark secrets and blind awe. Wooden furniture.
    Chicken livers on my plate. Livers remind
me of rump steak. I finally believe in love.

  sunse0001_400  The birth of the watermelon girl.
    I’m trying to explain about the stars.
    The stripes on the rope. My eyes
    keep on meeting them. I wonder what
    is holding them together. Is it God,
the sonship, Mother Mary, the spirit.
 
    Flesh and blood. The flesh and blood
    of martyrs. Of stars. Sinew informs
    bone. I sit at the kitchen table. Aware
    that they are distinctly aware of me.
My arms and legs have a life of their own.

    Made of spirit. Branching
    out. Veins made of ice and
    winter. Impressions of fire
    and water. Muscle informing
    bone. They were going

To spend the rest of their
lives together. But it never
turned out that way. God
had other plans. Life got in the way. Judged by the living
and the psychiatrist. My mother, a
jealous woman. I inherited

    a strange poverty from her
    for the haves and the have-
    nots. For all the supernatural
    and androgynous beauty of
    time. Xenophobia is a plague (has its own fruit of the womb).
    It has its own Egypt. Its own mandate.
    I wanted to live like the rich did. Those

wealthy prospectors.


   
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