I am sick with traveling
full of red lines on maps
it makes me forget to water my roots
as they have been torn up from home to
places. dots on every map or globe
the clay pot overflows from time to time
on holidays spent on old beds
walking on familiar dirt roads
buckling myself in an old white car
shaped like a jellybean.
the sickness has spread.
Languages enter my brain
fill the tunnel inside of my ears
and make me nervous, question myself.
Written on one hand–desire to settle,
plow a field, place myself there,
just deep enough to keep me from blowing over in a storm,
earn a wage, bloom in the spring,
and get thirsty during summer.
Written on the other–go go go,
see see see, the roads of the world
the veins and arteries beneath my skin.
My blood rivers and highways
spilling out with every nick and scratch,
paper-cut and stab with the paring knife,
Now learning to eat tomatoes with spicy mustard
like steaks, and vegetables consistently less cooked
and more crunchy.
I am sick with traveling
the radio voice speaking from somewhere in
Sierra Leon or from Budapest, New Delhi,
from Bush House Street in London,
Kabul, Brussels, Moscow, Los Angeles,
Sydney…a map on the wall with
language-specific names,
like Roma, Warzawa, Praha,
medical workers, teachers, politicians
who took off on a holiday
to find themselves no longer tourists,
but travelers.
