My prose Dust-Eyed on page 27 of the inaugural edition of the juried academic journal Portmanteau in the Spring of 2013 neo.edu/portmanteau My arms and calves were covered against the billowing dust that rose while I walked. I could dare to expose my red hair, if unscarfed, to reflect the heat of local submission. With my passport hidden away, only I had the choice not given to the native women. I watched hunched wives working with children. Their dry eyes dared not dream to venture from the fields. Their men who sipped cool drinks in the village shade would have warned against such a visual danger as a woman unescorted. Clear eyes sought the only secret access through overheated chadors. This was my encounter with the swirling mirage hiding an oasis of life. If I passed, would an image just evaporate? My spirit wanted to delay along a path of existence. I wondered if there was a strange language of sisterhood. I could not contain the personal message of the value sifted beyond measure. My own eyes sent the sentiment, “I do see you! You are a person!” At any caravan crossing, passing strangers could meet. For a moment, we found each other where no souls were shaded. Open eyes could not put a lid on such invisible smiles of energy. I wished we could ignite a warmth more true than that arid clime. I sensed a tear along the fabric that life stitched shut. But then we were choked by the dust. This prose Dust-Eyed that I wrote was published on page 27 of the inaugural edition of the juried academic journal Portmanteau in 2013. I have never been a student there.
Posted on: Mon, 07 Jul 2014 07:04:52 +0000
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