Abigail George

The metamorphosis of the narcissus off duty
(for my sister and the poet Douglas Reid Skinner)

The egoist, the narcissus, well she’s in bloom. 
She’s Witness. She’s young and beautiful just 
like my typewriter. When she talks the men draw 
near to her. They want her bad. Her coral lips. 
Her mother-bird is drowsy. I’m in need of an 
explanation. Why just love one daughter and 
not the other. The Witness has icicles for eyes.
She really has it in for me this time. Check the 
worry in my eye. Check my pulse. Is my heart
still beating? I am in need of a blood transfusion.
Her moonlit tongue lectures me. Her hair 
is made out of lust, November. You don’t 
really care about my poems. Your mind is made out 
out of summer leaves. I make threadbare notes 
on her skin. She’s leafy. Her arms are tragic 
branches. She would turn it around on me. Tell
me I’m the tragic one. Tell me that she lives 
well. Show off! You shove daylight out of 
sight. Flames lick desire, lick flock, dark-bitter
chocolate. She’s capable of listening to the
stars balancing act. The image of camouflage 
resides there too in that act that she clings
like an actor to. The campaign that she’s been
strutting I’ve had my share. Enough you little
show-off! You heathen or if it is by your choice
atheist then if it pleases you. Are you happy?
It must make you happy to make me sad.
I smile and pray and recover and relapse. Off
with me to the lunatic asylum. The day’s scarlet
multiplies in this tranquil cocoon. I tell myself
here I can be me. Here I’m as safe as brick
houses. I don’t hope that this reaches you.
It’s too late. Never mind. You’re late my girl, 
my sonnet, my apparition, my Witnessing 
prophet. Here is the wedding of leaf and
darkness.  You’re the footballer’s sweetheart. 
I’m hungry for her crooked little heart. To be
honest for me is like wearing my heart on my
sleeve. It’s like water off a duck’s back. I sup
alone. I want to know what the meaning of 
having a supernatural life means. To the Witness,
well she doesn’t acknowledge God in her life.
The world down low is a green triumph. I want
to say to her face, “Hello, love, long time no
see my sweet Cleopatra. Do you know who I am?”

Daughters of Eve old and young 
(for my sister and the poet Douglas Reid Skinner)

I am Pompeii. There is a map in my hands. I 
unearth ancient scrolls. Better the devil you 
know. I am all-woman. I am all-man. I am an 
alien species and mariner. I am fisherwoman. 
Watch how I spear the whale, eat shark flesh, 
console the turtle doves at Christmas. I take 
the pills and slowly but surely its poison transforms 
me into the capacity  to live vicariously through 
Freud. The nerve damage is there but there is nothing
I can do about it. Like the worker bee. Like

the sea. I just want to be alone. I just want 
to complete the task in front of me, ahead 
of me. I want to focus all my attention and 
energy on it. Leave me be. I need to concentrate. 
I need my health. I cry out. No one answers. 
There’s no reply. My cry is ignored by the universe. 
My cry is not important to anyone else. My matter 
is crucified by the silence. I came from particles,
broken images. My sister came from Prague. The
lonely man and the angry woman is my father 

and mother. One I love more than the other. I 
am the spotted fox, the ghost in this situation. This
equation spells out drama, a bad falling out, but 
my father has charisma on his side. My mother 
has her wilful beauty. So, we danced to the edge 
of the world. My sister wants to teach English in
Prague. That is where she is going for an eternity. She
does not come from broken images. She comes from 
rituals and purification, meditation and intention.
And so we move, we play these roles, in the dark. 

A time of abundance is coming. You’re the next
Elijah, Elisha, Jeremiah. You’re the next Lumumba,
Soyinka, Achebe, Adichie. It doesn’t matter if 
you have your heart set on being man or woman.
I can feel this in my blood. My veins sing your praises.
I worship you. Your river mouth. Your tangled
tongue. Your music is awe-inspiring. Your shipwrecked
hair swims in my hands. Its texture is perfect.
The world breaks and I’m there. You tremble and
I’m there greeting you with love songs and angels.

Abigail George

Pushcart Prize-nominated Abigail George is a South African-based blogger, essayist, poet, grant, novella and short story writer. She is the recipient of grants from the National Arts Council, the Centre for the Book, and ECPACC. She is the writer of eight books. Her latest book is The Scholarship Girl, distributed by African Books Collective. It was edited by Tendai Rinos Mwanaka. She has stayed for most of her life in the Northern Areas of Port Elizabeth and was born in 1979. She is the poetry editor for Africanwriter.com.