Kinky coils.
 Three textures.
 She black.
 There’s no lack in her melanin.
 Golden sands flow.
 Her hearts alive and her souls on fire.
 One glance and one assumption.
 Is she sad?
 Is she glad?
 Can I diagnose her sorrow.
 Can I unlock her pains.
 She black.
 Can I engage in your tomorrow?
 Can I take your hand?
 Living through a world with her Father’s view.
 Take his face, his nose, her mother’s ears, shape and toes.
 Yellow sheep in a midnight flock.
 Take his anger.
 Her lust.
 Mix in grandma’s brown sugar.
 Take her Christ and her suppression.
 Sister’s mild aggression.
 Fill a pool with ancestral tears
 With the hopes that one day,
 Her black.
 Mixed with her rack.
 Would win the war.

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