here, we are taught very early
that there are people possessed
— body, mind & spirit —
by the demon-ym of race.
that some eyes are sieves
and some complexions will always be too rough
to scale through their pores.

they say mongoloid, negroid, caucasian, australoid. i say bombastic.
i know human, it’s far simpler. at four, i could spell it.

i’ve heard those who say my skin is a banner bearing lucifer’s autograph;
i’ve heard those who say my father’s fathers are creatures fashioned in the likeness of the devil.
i’ve heard many dark metaphors about the anatomy upon which my being is hung.
and it is hatred i used to feel for the narrators.

but two months ago,
i saw a one-hour wildlife show on grandpa’s monochrome tv.
i sat before a simulation of an eye deficiency, their colour blindness.
just one hour. now, it is compassion i feel
for them who exalt skin-paint above blood.
only compassion.
it is like the fogginess of the harmattan dawn, like conjunctivitis.
it is graveyard. grave! to have freely
the glorious view of a globe anchored to the rhythmic beats of assorted colours,
and then choose to see life
in shades of a single colour; through the lens of a monochrome retina.


Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko from Pexels