Many 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.
Once
There were no shotguns
TheFeatheredSleep 