The Late Colonialist

rochaMany years ago when her ancestors wore

petticoats

white skinned women like herself were considered

in shallow groups of weak-chinned groups

the ultimate prize.

She recalls the stories she’s read

racism tied with a daggered bow

servants without souls or so

they liked to judge and damn

whilst still they raped and plundered behind

their wives fine china sets

the ‘help’ though slavery is more accurate a term

for no choice was made nor proffered.

Years ago and still present

people swerve away from black men

in hooded tops

when really they ought to be looking at

white men in high rise buildings making

corporate decisions

as the enemy of us all.

She looks in the tall mirror, her hand on a DNA report

the wonders of 21st century finding out too much

seeing her ancestors gallop

through the thick red wine of French blood

how much do they have on their hands?

What side on the Revolution did they stand?

She sees how fair skin is more prone

to stretch marks and ageing

she carries hereditary thrombosis throbbing in

her thin veins and the genes of her light colored

eyes have cataracts to look forward to.

At least she doesn’t have Celiac Disease

roiling in her belly, rebelling against

the abundant wheat field

instead she realizes

she is alive in the wrong colored body, in a too late era

to matter much anymore

where now women of ebony and brown and russet

conquer the rhetoric in their claim

finally the prize after decades of denial and she

ordinary, flab, drab, pale, wane, yesterday’s news

they say it really isn’t about that

when they pass her over for someone from

Uganda or Iran but she knows better

Kardashian or Iman Bowie

she knows the enticement of dark eyed girls

their thick hair and beautiful skin

she is just a late magnolia weeping

waxy and left too long on the branch

maybe she is paying for what ancestral harm

was done

back then and still now, depending on what

part of town.

Men tell her; I like your slim ankles

you look fetching in that blue dress

but their eyes betray their digression

it is not her they will ever want

she has nothing of the difference they crave

imbued with rainbow continent

spiced with unknowns and becomings

the raven always the raven, ever the ebon bird

who with her glorious chiseled features

captures their unfurling lust.

She is relieved in a way

nobody comes calling for her

existing behind glass in her pressed skirts

although still young, she feels she has

lived too long and it is better

in the vapor of silence

watching her reflection get lost

in the setting of the sun

over Africa’s

weeping trees whispering karma

to turquoise and orange

land.

17 thoughts on “The Late Colonialist

  1. If she is “lucky” her power will be in her man
    No longer her own
    Just as in time past
    And she will have to ignore
    When the dishes in
    The china cabinet rattle
    From the attraction of the exotic

  2. You are. I was thinking of you so much last night because I was watching Dr. Oakley Ukon Vet and I really admire the heck out of her and it occurred to me she reminded me of you so much, she’s obv not looks wise like you but she’s got that quiet determining and still calmness that belies her fierce soul. I really think she’s a lot like you and I smiled and smiled and smiled because I admire that so much. Lately I have been very blue, I want to be the kind of person who SPRINGS INTO ACTION in a crisis but truth is I am reflecting somewhat selfishly on how those I love VANISH when things like this happen and let me down and I also just know and acknowledge that I am sad and it’s pretty pathetic so watching powerful strong women is inspirational and reminds me what I want to be when I grow up 🙂 (you)

  3. What a lovely thing to say Peter! Thank you! I felt this story come onto me and so it is! Thank you dearheart for your read and words you know how much they are both appreciated

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