Sunday, June 22, 2008


My face is tempered fire
It promises victory in emotional desertion

The stained teardrop under my eye
Is a kiss from my childhood nuances
That gave me my second name

My scars are my grays
And my grays are my father
A discovery I made during one of the first receding tides

My nose tells the story of sugar cane fields
I was not there when Shango slipped through their fingers
But the hairs around my mouth come from a Portuguese slaveship
That colored my skin when it first crossed my forehead

The world is full of wonderful faces
If mine doesn’t smile,
It’s only my mother preparing her day.

Photos by Morisset

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