The Color of Hope

Birthed blue from my mother’s womb, the fight for life began before first breath.

Stone skin, a too familiar sight. The refugee released his breath, so his daughter may have a chance for one.

Breaking the silence as I had the waters, I cried out, calling in my name, inflating my lungs with destiny,

breathing in the colors of my bloodline,

staining my skin.

She wore a bright yellow pantsuit.

Black and white, non – the dress she had wanted long ago taken from her. Torn from her family, forced to the shovel, forced to her knees

she prayed to the same golden light she met under the spell of scarlet fever, digging her way out of every coal pit, with the song of a canary’s call.

And here, she stands. A Grandmother.

Cradling me in her arms of daffodil fields, holding hope and strength as the flower

marks,

a kiss on my forehead. Anointing me with honey, squeezed from stings.

Poured from blood, blended with promise a pallet presented from all of them. An heirloom to dip my dreams in

and breath out the sunrise.