Skin

Where I’m from, brown skin’s a funny thing

It comes inscribed with footnotes,
Summaries and appendices,
Written in language I don’t recognize

The milky white gaze of The Other,
Stands between me and my experience
Fenced off, hemmed in, I strain,
Eager to write my own story

This skin is mine after all right?

So I set about beginning my work,
Scribbling new notes, crafting paragraphs,
Of the life I know and witness,
Awaiting inquisitive, attentive eyes

Where I’m from, brown skin’s a strange thing

It rests, in between a rumor and a lie
For The Other, brown skin’s an empty page,
Grateful for the benevolent gaze
And the seeping, staining ink of The Other

Now, with ink finally freely flowing
My own story’s in full swing,
I plot the twists to captivate the curious
I set the tone, languid, lurid — I call the shots

Indulgent passages, filling pages,
Detailed, lush descriptions
Remove the barrier, the milky Gaze
Standing between me and what I’ve always known

Where I’m from, brown skin’s a storied thing

Drawing you close, inviting to its touch,
A second glance, a closer look,
Etched with layered, dense text, insisting,
Demanding your scholarly, studious attention

Where I’m from, brown skin’s a new thing

It stands unburdened, released from The Gaze
It revels in rain and sun and shade
Soaking up what it needs, deflecting what it doesn’t
The tales it tells, the knowledge it yields

Are now my own