Who told you you were “white,”
that disdain for shadows,
color of the fear of falling ?
You are not
white, you are oak,
apple wood and dandelion.
Make a barrel
of your bones.
Make wine of yourself.
Acquire the flavor of your ancestors.
Who told you you were “black,”
that abstraction of laughter and tears?
You are more than black.
Seeds of the sun are sown
in your cheek furrows.
You are banyan and mahogany,
kola nut and cocoa bean,
kinnikinnik of the sacred pipe.
You are the olive night.
Voracious love has dipped us both
in honey, meshed our chromosomes
in darkest cilia, netted our dendrites
like mushrooms in sweet loam,
the wild manure of one dragon.
Dust in a wrinkled rainbow,
whorled pallet of earth tones,
ginger, sorrel, burnt sienna...
We're one human juice
pulsing through a pungent root
toward starlight.
West African Earth Goddess Ala, image
shared on Pinterest, artist unknown.
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