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Amanda: A soujourners prose poem

March 5, 2011

I am floating somewhere between the Ganges and the Congaree; homesick for the musty scent of grandmas’ breath at church, the sportsmanship of losers, the buoyancy of lemons in a cup of iced sweet tea; unwilling to abandon this arid cricket play yard of a country.  No, not yet.  The weight of a market man’s fruit tugs from my shoulder bag, its imagined taste flirting with my senses, reminding me of the careless, jubilant woman I used to be.  She is lost here, and replaced instead with the elite skin of whiteness, haughtiness in her step (just waiting to trip), and a preference for the safety of AC in the same city where migrant villagers make their bed between slabs of sidewalk cement.  For them, I have no time to weep–just the time to shift my glance, swallow a breath of hazy polluted air, and think of home.

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