Songs of Anisha
“The Comfort Of Strangers,”
by Abigail George
Infertility is a dangerous
Word. It doesn’t live in the sun.
You think its mansion is
A season or a phase when
It first comes up. It never
Comes up in hurried conversation though.
The word ‘infertility’ is
Thunderous in my soul. So
Is the flight of children. Fight
For children. The glimmer
And spark in the dark of
The river of sorrow claws
Its way with its red talons
Into the dark ice of my lungs.
The rose quartz of my heart.
My dark soul that captivates
My psyche. Winter makes
Me feel empty inside. I sit writing
(Always writing) in longhand
At my brother’s desk. He has
Gone off to work in an office.
I sit at his desk which used
To be my father’s desk. For
Ten years my father was a principal
At a high school in the Northern
Areas. This was his desk. For
Most of the day it is mine. I
Want to be happy but it’s hard
In a sea of faces clucking disapproval
At the choices that I’ve made
With my life. The first thing my
My sister always asks me is this,
‘Are you going to get paid for this?’
I answer no that I’m not. It’s for
Cred not bread. It’s the sun,
Always the sun that dries up
All my tears. I’m always testing the
Relationships I have like that.
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