ethnicity cloaked
in a cotton top coat.
don't ask...
she won't tell...
her name may
give you...pause
then the
thought of it
just fades away
like a
long applause.
a ocean of emotions
swirl & swirls
to a...perfect storm
that crashes
just beneath
her surface.
she stands lost
in the western woods.
As a 1st generation
Americano.
Mrs. Chameleon
blends & meshes
in all the right
schoolastic cliques
an clubs,
even though she
feels like the only
spade in the deck.
she's not ready
to be set...
at recess...
she runs as if
the chime of the
bell makes her
feel...
freeded
liberation...
straight to
the box.
were the
love of the
cool, coarse
tan sand
up against her
milky skin.
lets her
escape again.
within the
confinds of her
mind she's
no longer
lost & alone.
her imagination
emerges from
its coccon...
chanting low...
"if only i was brown...
Mother Mary..."
"if only i was brown...
if only...
if...only...
i was brown...
maybe i could
stop droppin
piggy banks
in fountains
wishin 4 color
& fallin to my
knees ritually prayin
4 color..."
you see...
the only brown
she see's
is in her enviroment
& on T.V.
touching the trunk
of a tree.
"is this what it feels like
to be brown."
changing channels
on the tele
"is that what i have 2 say...
is that what i have 2 do...
to be brown."
The diluted innocence of a child...
her native tongue
1st
unfamiliar...
then foreign.
abuela
was her
only connection to the
past...& now she's passed.
the umbilical cord
for what lyed before.
severed...
no more food
for thought
to enrich her
soul.
fall
was her favorite
time of the year.
because
she could see
more brotha leaves
an sista brown.
then fat man winter
comes &
lays blanco
upon the land.
in the fall
her vibe stayed
vibrant & wonderous
like the colors,
an she would wonder
an ponder...
"why not the
outside of me...
why not me..."
as the years fold over
she even felt
her body
giving over
to help perpetuate
the illusionary lie,
with the lack of
curvaious curves.
the erosion
of heritage
leads to malnutrition
caused from
cerebral anorexia.
no language,
customs,
or self identity
to hold her grounded
widens the chasm.
she wants not
history...,his-story...
she wants
herstory.
now...
I find myself
pondering & wondering
if she has a
baby girl
would she name
her
"Autum"...
Thank you
for the book
free Mumia...
blessings...
4 fingers & a pen poetry. |
Submission Name: crayon
