serafina said so.



He sees the fullness of my lips
And wonders what ancient dialect takes root between them
As if my mouth could be the gateway
To his own cultural enlightenment

He tries to read me
As if there is calligraphy
In the curves of my hips
Spelling out exotic incantations
He can use to label me

So before I tell him what I am
I tell him what I am not

The olive undertones of my skin
Don’t make me a cultural chameleon
Able to transcend the boundaries of race or prejudice
I live in Canada
I am pale in the winter and tanned in the summer
It’s just melanogenesis

The moles on my body are not a roadmap to a plethora of worldly knowledge
Not constellations of ancestral wisdom and guidance
Connecting them will not lead you down some holy road of awareness
It will simply
Turn me on

I am not a square you can tick off on the bingo card of your sexual adventures
I am not a challenge, not an unconscious colonial conquest
I am not a trophy to be polished and mounted

I am Mediterranean red wine
Full bodied and complex

(April is National Poetry Month, so we write a poem a day. They will probably all be quick but I cannot guarantee they will be painless.)

4 notes

  1. deonteosayandepoetry said: this poem of yours = basket full of yes
  2. serafinasaidso posted this