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The envy of maps

Lee-Ann Fialkov

I was never jealous of your travels or the bent and abused
black and
white photographs that adorned your living spaces. It never
bothered
me that your tongue had licked more foreign stamps than my
own or
that your mind was a mess of cities and maps: discovered,
explored,
raped and recorded (and you show me your diary, blurred and
fragmented and filled with the magic of orange and pencil
sketches:
Art amongst bus tickets.) I only smiled at you. I was never
ashamed
That your dreams were more foreign than my own or that you
whispered
through colour and movement while supporting metal and
memories.
(I loved the traveller and the boy and the weary magician
who got
lost on mountain tops and slept in cities which rested upon
music and
caravans) And when you showed me the gift that your friends
had made
for you, I smiled and held the plastic globe in my less
travelled
hands as I spun your world around on its axis. (they had
pasted your
cut-out face on every surface where you had surfaced) Your
personal
pilgrimage was my pain, your name the only landmark on my
map.
How could I tell you that every mound or mountain, city or
palace
would only appear on my map with you behind me. And when
you
travel through Africa this autumn, I will not envy you,
only the sun
that touches your skin and the raw earth that learns your
touch.

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