The colors in my rainbow.
I drink my coffee black because my daddy does.
And he’s worked beneath the red,
hot, South Carolina sun
since I was young, and then some.
Like his father did, and our ancestors before.
Our rich brown skin, sometimes so deep
that it appears blue,
is a reminder of everything
we have endured.
Like the backs of my arms,
they are darker than the rest
because the sun’s rays follow close behind me,
sheltering me from the storm.
And the center of my face has a golden hue
because the fiery light of the horizon
ricochets off my chest and back into me.
I used to hide this flesh out of fear of being seen,
fearing what others make us out to be.
I would keep to the shadows
because where does black fit on a rainbow?
But a caged bird doesn’t sing,
and I need room to scream.
Now I know that I belong to the cosmos.
