BY ABIGAIL GEORGE
(for my sister)
The day has
a mothlike quality to it. I make a cup of tea (always for one). Boil the
water in the
microwave oven while
make way for new poems. Once, I lived in grassroots country. Rural
(Boarding school). Slowly
my flesh is emptying out. Winter making way for spring’s milky sweetness,
summer’s pleasure and
waves of heat, autumn’s gift.
Slowly, I climb back
into their world. Standing in the sun sipping my cup of tea for one.
I sit and watch the
afternoon warming the page in front of me.