Cheryl Diane Parkinson

Citizen of the World

44 years old

I have always struggled with that feeling of not belonging. Not knowing who I am. Not knowing my history. The feeling that is just behind my subconscious, within my reach, but not reachable. the state of the hybrid. Elusive as smoke. And yet I cannot help but chase it. Knowing I can never catch it. Knowing the reasons why I cannot catch it. I still chase it! Surely a sign of madness that we have all heard about: doing the same thing and expecting a different outcome. But, in chasing it, I get some kind of peace. My chasing it takes the form of writing. And some part of me knows I shall never find the answer, yet there is that side to me that thinks, maybe this time. And so, when I write... I find peace. Here is a poem I wrote about myself to help me find peace.

I am

I am not a star.

An inferno of heat and white and light blasting out in the suffocating black. Showing you the way. I am not a flaming fire. Licking and spitting and crackling in the woods. Taking lives, devouring homes, raging out of control. A maw of biting and snarling and stinging and winging. A gluttonous monster of madness and fire-hot fury. Burning my way through the earth.

Our house.

With no mercy.

All instinct

and all mouth.

I am not a fire. Orange and yellow light keeping you warm, feeding your soul and mind. A constant companion for camping and cooking and cleansing. Prometheus's gift.

I am a flame.

On a single match.

I am small.

But I am good.

I don’t give much light, and I cannot keep you warm. But I am a presence in the dim. I light the way for your feet. So you don’t trip and stumble or crumble.

My flame flickers.

If you are a moth, come close. Stare into my dark chocolate pits, you might see a ghost.

Puffa fish girl, underneath a coconut tree.

Sitting cross-legged, a cat on her knee.

Her image blurred, her hair twirled. She swallowed a dictionary…

and vomited a world.