I said, “Look at her” because she's
Beautiful. You disagreed. You
Weren't able to savor her brown
And perfect almond eyes, her skin,
So dark, so richly inviting. You
Thought of yourself, and your culture
Of mastery, all of its bleached
Features, skin without color,
Hands without callusses,
Held aloft on islands which
Might have been perfect, except
For the natives who died, and her
Forebears, who came here in chains
From west Africa, doomed to chop
Sugar cane, doomed to be scorned.
I'm not willing to wash my hands
And embrace you here in the heat,
In this cauldron of infamy. I
Hear the word that you used
To describe her, and I'll tell you
This: I don't care for your sort.
You're too pale. You're a grub
From a log that is rotting. She is
A phoenix. She's going to rise,
And I'd rather rise with her,
I'd rather be decent, than
Sink ever lower with you.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 25 times
Written on 2020-06-30 at 03:06

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