I’m opening all the blinds to begin this poem.

why, because this page has swallowed much
sepia and grayscale than a 64-bit rgb color.

there’s a way to unbuild bodies, into a science
of acceptance —where the only option to

measure the distance between a body and maul-
ing is the similarity between the color of your skin

and the sun. white radiates | | black conceals.
i’ve stilled in many quiet cottages to nullify this

law of [color] separation where versions of
reverbrations are separated into different materials

by skin, & by the pigment you wear. long enough,
i’ve tried to steal my name into the part of God’s

holy book where weighs of the color i carry
are pressed down: lightweight, but here i am,

mistaking my body for an immune vessel. Lord,
remove me from this chasm, where my skin

pigment equates a string of smudged letters shape-
shifting into a broken cart / / a decidous leaf.

once, i wonder if supplications to God, in sand
brings justice to the chest of these men who have

died by breathing shoes or if god, too, is ravenous
waiting for libations of obì with a brother’s head

For black boys, nowhere should wring into flames.

Obì: a yoruba word for kolanut