Friday, May 7, 2010

For mom...

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 the first receding tide

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 crossed my forehead

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

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