Calmly forward towards the self
away, away from gravity.

Defenseless under the darkness of pillows
your large black body
propelled towards infinity.

Like a human spider that walks the hairy line
between God and dark skin.

At sunset I hold you,
you little black child of God,
with intense savagery.

Night’s closing in, my holy one,
a little dull shed of grey
that Moses lifts from the sea
and slaughters the cries of Jews.

Your dark hands, my princess
could spark drums, carrions and conflicts
and start a dark history of man;

like the little black God I’m hiding in my breast
at early morning sunset,
you call him your son.

Goods, guns, barrels
shoved up the bourgeois arse of history
upside down;
you say you have a name for that.

Civilization stamped on your lip-gloss,
air-ticket and white passport,
even as you tip off the dark waitress
at a cheap French restaurant.

You are dark, my love
darker than your land, your sea
darker than the light that man thinks blind.

Playing games with
the darkest regions of the skin
which only hands can dream to reach.

I meanwhile have lost my accent,
my law, my land, my blood, my face.

Now I’m dark, my love
darker than your black skin.

Strolling through the bazaar for a white mask
I find herbs, powders and perfumes
that promise to make an empire white in a day.

Two pounds a week for the old Jamaican beggar
selling the dust of white irises.

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