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The woman I am?
A cartographer of curiosity.
Resident of far and wide.
Adventurer, explorer.
Treasure hound.
Passionate devotee of beautiful things.
Collector, curator.
My most precious collection?
Women.
Priceless, robust, delicate.
Such as a cursed amulet at the Nepalese border.
Captivating. Intoxicating. Formidable.
I offer you a glimpse at my collection.
No passport required.
England, Fiji, Paris, Lebanon.
New Zealand, Scotland, Holland, Thailand.
America, Indonesia, Italy, Columbia.
Look, don’t touch.
Listen, don’t take.
Love, don’t cage.
The one with explosions in her lungs and terror in her ears.
With charity in her chest and love abundant across her length.
The one devoted to wombs.
The earthside guide.
With a little book, full of legacy –
Names and dates and numbers, hundreds.
The one that when I asked –
“When you look back on the history of your life, how do you organise it?”
Replied –
“Countries and husbands.”
The one with a beautiful garden –
A Garden of her Grief.
Dutifully tending to seeds of tragedy.
Watering carefully curated garden beds with wet tears.
Finding comfort in the sad place she’s made herself to sit.
The one who rejects gender and desires a mini skirt.
That hunts and farms.
That bleeds art from their throat and heart.
Marked by art they’ve etched in flesh.
The one I found in Singapore, in the sky.
That speaks a magic integrated language of power, love and light.
Maiden, mother, crone.
Wise and long.
Milky, soft & clean.
That requested I come write in bed alongside her –
“What do you desire?”
The sweet as peach, country pumpkin pie.
With a fossil around her neck; sky, sea and jungle in her heart.
That looks, sounds, smells like sunshine.
Is warm like sunshine.
That walks and talks wild with elephants.
The one that texts god.
Women, kaleidoscopic.
Predictable in beauty – unpredictable in pattern.
My most precious collection.
Written by Sophie A. Abela
Author
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