painted light

I look upon my 4-year old skin and sigh,

such innocence steeped in a homogenized

rainbow of shades resembling a piece of

sun existing differently in the day, a

simple difference of course. color after all

is the first lesson in kindergarten.

you name red, yellow, green, purple, nose-

crinkling black & brown, grey, orange.

time painted differing shades into

existence and sometimes history tastes

curdled on my tongue.

tip of tongue dipped into brandished aura

perplexed at its existence

at five I told my mother I wished

my skin to be painted porcelain – like hers –

pictured: a standalone painting of black bliss erupting

into flames. Shaking head and hands exclaim “[text in white]!!!”

I don’t ask again how I can become a chameleon,

apparently skin color is not interchangeable.

I wished for the brush of new cells.

in eighth grade I was not only the

standalone painting of blackness,

I was the embodiment of a body

left to stand out in the crowd.

but legs learned how dancing feels when backed

by Stevie wonder – my dad sings and my whole world smiles