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January 30, 2023


By Abigail George


I'm glad I never gave up
 On my mother. Even though
 There were times that I
 Came close. There were

 Days when I wondered how I
 Was going to get through
 The night. How I was going
To survive another day as a nomad.

Dreams are made up of stardust,
 The origins of heat and dust.
 Smoke and mirrors. Summer's
 Strange shadow is a memoir of
Yesterday, and yesterday is an open-space where wildflowers grow.
 There are cracks in the threshold of America.

 Please step carefully or
 You'll lose your heart.
 There are signs that Africa is maturing.
 Nourishing the souls of

Her people again. There are signs
 That Africa wants to be the
 Caretaker of the world again.
 Media has become a thinking
 Translation. Africa says that
 She wants to free her people.
 Every child is envied and loved for their innocence,

Tenderness, vertigo, how they forget
 The maelstrom of life. Their occupation of washing
 Their sins away bath-time or in a swimming pool.

I think back to high school with nostalgia.
 How I tattooed my palms with ink.
 How I wrote love letters to a boy
 In whose world, I did not exist. (Would never exist).
 I think of all my English teachers.
Africa, Dhana, Smith, all male, all male.
How everyone of them planted this, this
Small, magical seed within me, to write.

Article © Abigail George. All rights reserved.
Published on 2017-11-13
Image(s) © Sand Pilarski. All rights reserved.
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