You and I in Technicolor

Ivory fingers on redbone skin, 

your eyes were dead and filled with the sins of your daddy’s daddy

long before I thought that someone might help things

by keeping cans of light beer in the fridge for you. 

By keeping the kitchen light on

and letting you use the cucumber mint body wash 

on the top shelf in the morning.

 

They tell me in the moving pictures

that boys like you need girls like me

to grow them up into men who save people;

to grow them up into men who love people. 

 

They warned me that I might be left behind,

under the table all curled in on myself.

But they did not tell me 

what you would take with you when you went.

Now I can’t seem to find my momma’s momma’s love

I can’t seem to find their strength or their sparkle. 

 

I looked into my mirror and found

That my eyes had been killed and filled 

With the sins of your daddy’s daddy. 

 

He comes to me in moving pictures sometimes and says:

“That’s all you honey-colored harlots are good for.”

You come to me sometimes and say you meant everything,

that you know what you did 

to my eyes

and my strength 

and my sparkle. 

 

You say that you would do it again

because that’s what the moving pictures tell boys like you

that girls like me are for. 

I cleaned up after you and now,

you help people.

Now, you love people.

 

I hope that one day 

you look in the mirror

and see how the rage of my momma’s momma

has taken your sharp edges and burned them off

used the ashes to choke you up

and sliced away your ivory fingers.

 

See how the white-hot anger of my momma’s momma 

has put you into the moving pictures

to show the boys like you

that girls like me

are not here to develop your character.