You are brown. You are
brown until one morning you wake up beside someone white and suddenly, you are
white, the sun taking snapshots through the apertures of plastic blinds,
an accident not of depth perception, but color deception.
In him is a cavern that would be a mountain if it could.
In him a boy draws eagerly from a well.
The last thing you think of when you are with him is the color of his life, until
his eyes, and his hair, which are brown, which are simple, which are calm, cause
you to contemplate his house, the family within it—a dining table of still mahogany,
tiles beige, a kitchen clean of sound—
At night, the light, incandescent, and his skin (only skin, after all)
keeps the miracle of him intact, so that as you move your hands over
his there is the color, somehow, of orange, and of yellow. Also, a little red.
The sun, descending. The sun, ascending—