Prose: Homeland

 BILL CRISAFI

I belong to no one, I am from no where. No sea to call home, no land to roam. I am free living, my spirit is in the sky, my heart in the mountains, my brain with the city, neurons like power lines. I belong, legally to the British. Tall towers, ancient stones and warm stoves. I belong to the witch woman, the herbalists. The lover woman that take long walks along their shore. The woman that weren't afraid to breath new life and to love the life they made. The English mothers, the wandering moors. The green and the grey. I belong to them. I yell bloody Mary too much.

However, I am split up, my body belongs to somewhere foreign, somewhere I have never step foot on. They wouldn't take me in, I laugh to loud. I enjoy kissing too much. I speak to often, about the all encompassing. This place is yellow and blue. Dusty, jewel coloured. A big blown up Buddha. Red rubies for eyes. The secret earth, the long lasting meals of rice and meat soup. Fish with Jaleebi. Sunset coloured tea. Kebab street side. The women are blue, the men mean. Hardened by war. Love letters that could kill. This is where my father is from, peeping tom, poor women bathing. The poor women. If only I could sit with them and sip three cups of green tea. Chai sabz or sia? Green or black? The fire eaters up in the Hindu Kush, pray for the flames. My mothers Russian tongue. Tajikistan dreaming, love lines but made out blood. The blood spill, dropped like NATO water. The girls and boys and their high flying kites, rainbow diamond dots in the sky.