Colors

Sky clear full of stars bright shimmering orbs of white fire.
The yellow porch-light bulb keeps the bugs away...away in
the woods creeping trepidation, crawling apprehension:
the low hum of day becomes the deafening roar of night.
The insects hide like my emotions:  seething in hunger,
                                                     stalking in need,
                                                     -- preying--
        always there but seldom seen.
Streetlamp streaming argent rays of generic hospitality
reminds me of local ansesthetic. Skin meets my eyes
                                                    (my own).
I am not black like an African King
                                                    robed in royalty
                                                    ruling in wisdom.
Nor am I white like the grinning fat man who lusts
              for my vote and my wallet...
             Tho', to the uncareful observer
I would appear so.
                       No.

Hair brown like the land of my people.
Eyes, blue like the Sky-House of the Great Spirit.
Heart, blood-red like the death of my people.

But there are no more Tears, the Trail is ended.
No more do they till the land we tended.
No more do they wear the garments we mended.

Cumulo-nimbus crowds close to Sister-Moon;
       steam surrounds the streetlight.
I look down
        to see my color
                  like my pain
                        wash away
                                in the gentle rain.

7.8.1994