I caution my son—
he is a cacao flower
pirouetting on our front lawn,
his pigment humming the hue
of the Other.
It happened twice—
the sight of him rousing barbs and flints
of passers-by’s discomfort:
Hey! You!
What are you doing there?
as he stood in the skin
of his own doorstep—
mere existence
an omen of peril.
But the world laughs in mocking tones,
Dial down mother!
Imagine less!
Don’t be so sensitive,
when I rattle the chains of my truth.
So, I dim the sun
in my son’s bones,
I tell him to fold his wings,
I teach him to make himself small,
I forewarn him frequently,
my marrow teaching
the armour of survival
when I say:
Don’t stand there son.
Come inside now.
And when he flares at me
like a flame-eyed hawk
undone by pain
crying,
Bloody hell Mum, it’s our lawn!
I hear the shattering
of fear turned glass.
And I do not say,
Language!
