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Abigail George

Gus Ferguson

Gulf, I am apprehending the riverbed stream of this river’s 
language. I am in mourning for what I have lost, and 
the world has lost. I think to myself what a wonderful 
arriving. What an auspicious beginning flowers have,
the boy and his horse, and the world does not seem to 
see me. I think of the sunlight in water the wintry crab 
curled up at the water’s edge. This hoisting of achievement, 
this abandoning of the heightened sense of awareness. 
The bath water is getting cold. The text passes. The light 
is all shiny and new passing triumphantly into the blue 
oblivion. There is a dialogue on my plate. The cold pages 
dominate the conversation. Everything in my life has led
up to this. I am a kite when morning comes. Tugging at
     the pull and sway and rush and volition of the wind. 
I have taken a lover; this is how the second daughter speaks.
This is how she addresses her position. And in the fog,
in its intensity, as the wind blows, there is a wasteland and 
a country to call my own. There is a moveable feast from
one generation to the next. The second daughter is the 
scholarship girl. Everything about her speaks of nymph,
of coquettishness. It smells like incense burning. It tastes of
feather, feels as if I am washing away the unbearable sins,
the lightness of youth. And men always seem torn between 
two things. Their love interest and finding neverland. And 
women always seem torn between two things. Their love 
interest and finding neverland. The second daughter 
beguiles, seduces, and pouts her way through life. I thought
of you. I thought of you. Beyond the reckoning of it all.
Everything I take, I take from real life, from the world and 
illusion. Like a flash of lightning, like a bolt of lightning
in the greenhouse. Here, the orchids grow. They tremble
when it rains. There’s a spark in the earth, and some thing
is brought to life. A leaf finds its golden route to stem 
and sapling. Your girl is beautiful, I am always telling the 
men that I meet. Your lady is beautiful. Deserving of the 
title of socialite. You are the greatest man I know. I know
of no other with your kind of intellect and the brave way you
move in this world. I want to have all of you, but as a poet,
as a female writer I write too in a parallel world. To the man 
I meet, I am the resident psychologist. He is gone. The 
man refuses to see me. And I tell myself do not dream of 
giving up. And the world is dim and cold when the men 
aren’t in it. And so, I evolve into sinking into evolution. That
is how my external environment keeps growing. When morning 
comes so does star Hiroshima. When a woman is lost, there
is also one waiting to be found. And sometimes it feels as
if we are orphans of the ark going around and around in 
circles. Lines are converging on the volcano. Aloes bloom.
They certainly are accomplished like fever. And I go back 
to the community. And I come into contact with refuge 
and call the mountains and the valleys home. Tomorrow 
success begins. I think I am going to fall in love with you 
again, life. I watched a man build empires around him die.
He was better than me. He was better than me. Than me. 

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