mine is a vibrant one.
there is nothing quiet about it
it rages and roars
and sings and claps its hands.
the women—
with flowing multicolored skirts
dark, beautiful eyes lined with kohl
hidden behind blinding fabrics
coy, knowing smiles
jangling bangles
and shimmering jewels
gold woven with their veins
seeping into their blood.
and the men—
strong jaws
and browned, sunburnt arms
with ebony hair
curling towards the sky
quiet words
and humming thoughts
intelligence like sparks of flame,
heartbeats and poetry,
songs about beauty and the universe.
yes, my culture can sing.
with drums and clapping hands
and dances in the street
we pluck the stars from the heavens
and embroider them into our skirts.
the music of flutes
entice the heads of tigers into our laps
serpents coiling around my knees,
because they are unafraid,
and so am i.
larks perched in my hair
a thousand gold rings from the sun
the old wise women
who sit on the street
ink flowers into my skin.
yes, my cocoa skin, skin like gold
decorated with rubies and diamonds
I glitter like a fresh flower
one of the softly swaying ferns
whispering stories
of elephant gods and princes
of fierce love and bloody wars.
the air heady with spices
and spilling jars of oil
coconut milk, white as ivory
softening skin,
melting into my mouth
tasting of heaven
and a culture too deep for words.
(so don't amount it to a food truck and a bunch of IT guys.)
