Blueberry jam spills across the sky, forming lepidopteran wings as far as my eyes can see. You know, in Navajo folklore, the butterfly is a symbol of vanity. But alas, I gaze into the deep azures expansive against the back of my palm. Mirrors. Like a blanket, blue domes crowned above.
I promise more conquest. I promise debauchery. I promise melodrama. Afterall this is nothing but the aquamarine formula of post-colonialism itself. Summer has begun.
When I was little, I used to grope at virescent creepers that overlapped side walks. I never let go, moving and moving against the serpentine weight of my wanderlust nature only found in the closed hands of children. I was amazed by the openness of palm fronds that attempted to swallow azures whole. I did not stop there: blues and green, I tried to find them everywhere I could:
Sarees. Rivers. Atlas that opened the world past two-dimentions: why is it that Africa, the richest continent in gold (1/2 of the world's gold has been mined out of Johannesburg alone) is the most poor. South Africa, the most gilded with resoures of all the nations has 42% of its population living on less than 2 dollars a day. The story of colonialism is a bitter pill to swallow. Says the girl whose nation was the land of 'puppets' as the British so eloquently put it. A nation whose Renaissance began in the khakis of British generals and ended in the lips of a rose colored chakla. India had her Malinches, too.
I promise more conquest. I promise debauchery. I promise melodrama. Afterall this is nothing but the aquamarine formula of post-colonialism itself. Summer has begun.
No comments:
Post a Comment