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Offering Offering
by Abigail George
2019-02-24 11:04:28
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(for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)

I think of high school girls. Perfect days,

    and prefects, playing first team hockey,
    art and the debating team. Being on the
sao01_400    Quiz team, appearing in the newspaper. Saying
    things before thinking about what you
    were about to say. I think of how composed
    the silent twig and the miracle of Hamlet
    was. How stranded and ambushed I felt
    sometimes. The useless loneliness of being
    abandoned, swimming in the pool and galas.
    Being let down by a beautiful mother and
    a beautiful sister who followed in our mother’s
    footsteps. I remember how nobody was
    by my side. How I felt I was losing my
    mind. That I was in hell. How I was cast out into
    the abyss. How sometimes school felt like
    hell and what the other girls’ said to me.
    How I felt that I was losing the fight so I
    began to eat less and less. I think of the
    introspective branch. The sun drifting into
    view. I sigh when I think of high school
    girls. The vanity that they have. That they
    think will carry them through all the days
    of their lives. The day is beautiful, like youth.
    I’m a totally novel woman now. The pills
    make me forget. Yes, those sleeping pills
that leave a funny aftertaste in my mouth at
    the back of my throat. Later it rains in the
    evening. At first it spits, then it pours.

The fractured genius wind bangs the window

    in the bathroom shut. My writing-life came
    from teachers, and high school girls with pain
    deep in their eyes. And the stars like our
    bodies turn to dust. My sister just wants to
    leave on a jet plane. She’s Prague. Found
    the better exit out to India, Thailand, Bali, New
    York. She wants the perfect life but she
    doesn’t want to work, or pray for it. I’ve
    noticed this. That history has nothing to say
    about Sylvia Plath’s brother. I think of Nietzsche

and religion. I think of how much I love her, and
    how we live under the same sun. How the
    grand clouds rule us, perfect us when we

    hear the voice of our mother, and I think of
    the smell of wild rain in her hair, in her
    show of tears. The winter scarf around her neck
    like a hangman’s noose. I look at her face.

Happy lips. Red. Her words spelling-out an emergency service.
    And I think to myself that if she had a
    boyfriend he would bring her flowers.

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

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