Poetry

Africa

African
am I,
my skin still
brown though paled
by millennial migration
away from equatorial sun.
White the lie.
Black a term.
Colored everyone—
beneath the skin
where the vessels run
deepest.
I try not to see
with my eyes alone.
When I shake
your hand, I feel the
blood and bone that
means we’re the same
inside: hunger, fear,
a longing for home.

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