prism people

prism people

i wear my color like a 6th grade medal. i take

my color to the grocery store. it stands

in the express line. it gets on the bus

for free. i won’t take my color off

unless it comes with a crib

for my mom. or a full ride

scholarship.

i hang my color in the shower

to be steamed and pressed. i save

a small part of it for my daughter. leave it

under the sink. or in a hair drawer. i choose

to part her hair with my color. decorate her

scalp with so much more.

no one can touch

my daughter’s color. if someone reaches

for it, i’ll teach her to cut

theirs open. one day she will see

they are all the same on the inside. i’ll tell her

that’s white magic. she is always behind

the curtain, with her feet showing. i want

her to know that hiding is

a child’s game, and she shall

play it until she changes the rules.

for now, my color is left

in a sonogram. a window seat

picture, something my mother cries too.

i plan to have an album

of me. a mixtape,

a t.v channel. no one will give

me an award for my color. no one will give

me a nomination. so i’ll wear my color

as an acceptance speech. 15 minutes

for the girls after me.

and when we win, i plan to drink

out my color. maybe even ash

my blunts in it. no one can tell me what to do

with my color. all they can do is admire

my mantel. or take a picture

when they don’t ask

for permission, i’ll be forced

to sue. my color is a NDA. my color is

a lawsuit.

people only like me

for scary movies, or stage

openings. when they turn

the lights off, some say i die. some say,

i turn into a prayer, or an etymology. i wear

my definition like a nursery

rhyme. or a first phone number.

when it’s time for me

to be called, i turn my color

into a mirror or a prism. add filters

cause that’s what colors do. build

and stack on top of each other. too

many and i turn blk. something

thats picture perfect. when they ask

where the rainbow is, i hold

out my hands and take selfie.