Does God have a listening device? by Abigail George | Poems Rethabile Likes
Does God have a listening device?
by Abigail George
because you are a drug addict
because you are a thief
because you are promiscuous
and you told your boyfriend
to tell my brother that he, the guy you were seeing, had a gun
You abandoned the child
left your daughter with her paternal grandmother
You're so bad that you were in my brother's bed
the night your mother died
Your sisters cared and cooked for her
while my brother gave you pleasure,
you moaned into the darkness, into the half-light,
as the silvery moonlight covered
the shadows of your bodies
in the room next to mine
Sometimes you would would come over in the afternoon
The two of you would go straight to his room
Afterwards, you would stand on the stoep
and smoke marijuana
While your mother, who had tumours deep inside her brain,
was waiting to die
Perhaps it is best that you disappeared
Maybe you're in Johannesburg
Women lose their innocence there
And they never return
We will tell your daughter,
that she was wanted
that she has your nose, your lips, the colour of your eyes
We will tell my niece,
that you, the woman that she called mother
for the first three years of her life,
the woman who gave birth to her,
that she called, mummy,
We will tell your daughter that you loved her.
because you are a thief
because you are promiscuous
and you told your boyfriend
to tell my brother that he, the guy you were seeing, had a gun
You abandoned the child
left your daughter with her paternal grandmother
You're so bad that you were in my brother's bed
the night your mother died
Your sisters cared and cooked for her
while my brother gave you pleasure,
you moaned into the darkness, into the half-light,
as the silvery moonlight covered
the shadows of your bodies
in the room next to mine
Sometimes you would would come over in the afternoon
The two of you would go straight to his room
Afterwards, you would stand on the stoep
and smoke marijuana
While your mother, who had tumours deep inside her brain,
was waiting to die
Perhaps it is best that you disappeared
Maybe you're in Johannesburg
Women lose their innocence there
And they never return
We will tell your daughter,
that she was wanted
that she has your nose, your lips, the colour of your eyes
We will tell my niece,
that you, the woman that she called mother
for the first three years of her life,
the woman who gave birth to her,
that she called, mummy,
We will tell your daughter that you loved her.
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