SEA FEVER

Dream state: Bus ride to Samarkand, Uzbekistan Who am I? Eight weeks float pass; my barge of longings ( good food, gorgeous wines, shared conversation, crisp linen on a bed, clean clothes ) trades for a simple rowboat: quick border crossing and a hot shower. Eyes constantly scan the horizon; particles of light, land and air are inhaled, bombarding my lungs, expanding my brain, filling every cell. Growing larger in the world; the desert lodges in my hair, sun colors my skin. The Caspian Sea lulls patience in my soul, Turkmenistan etches a tiny, new line of fear across my brow. Boastful Azerbaijan, home of twenty cents a liter gas and Eurovision pride, weighs in as a ton of feathers, a heavy burden to shoulder, yet blowing away in the slightest breeze; empty hands hang low. Uzbekistan decides my tongue has travelled widely; previous language impairments give way to fluency and an ability to fit any country I am given. I become French from East Africa, Russian is tossed in my mouth; have I been educated there? The "Nyet" spurted back does nothing to stop the flow of conversation. I smile as older women compare their skin with mine, asking me my age, my status, deciding I'm from some other Muslim country where Uzbeki is standardly spoken. Speaking in English does nothing to dispel this notion from either them or me. You would not recognize me. Whether witch or bewitched; my form has changed, a new mold made. Bountiful and inflammatory riches of my heart: family, loves, friends, are the fire for casting to be done either tomorrow or yesterday. Are these dusty alleyways sprinkled with dark cool courtyards, rising from my pillow or from a walking sleep? Stretching endless sands, mirage or oasis, shimmering in unfamiliar dry heat? Do I dream by day or night?