Colours of my people
Sometimes I fall asleep talking to dead people
beyond the village aloes where sunshine goes to rest—
occasionally I see their bodies cross the lens of my sight
like a moon behind clouds.
And oh, I wait for every night to watch them
shuffle to and from the catacombs,
going nowhere in particular but carrying weights
of things they’d always refused to moan about. People
who are black and graze alone out in the cold
of hard pavements under the boot.
I am a quota of families with connexions
to the deep of holds. I have the mind to draw
a hooded kid with Skittles talking to our ancestors.
What questions and answers would they share
in the standing dusk of a mid-earth afternoon?
Oh, I’ve outlined them with a coal pencil now,
and am painting the colours of their image into flames.