It will one day happen without power of sound
they'll sit on their tiny stools fit for a lazy king
watch us pound bags of charcoal
turn them into a palace
Mother's breadfruit has dried up her nipples
she has no milk left to water the ground
her skin is darker than blackout
I barely see her shadow when she whispers
her words dotted like coffee beans
I follow them to a field where she dances
with Spain around a wild fire
her feet are stained blood
the French are back
surrounding the highest mountains
they want our corn
our coffee rot in their teeth
they want our color
our foundation is rust
they sit on their tiny stools to admire
to envy our pigments
café au lait is Mongolian spots
shipped by mother's dried milk
I chant her blessings over loud drums
and they run
run with the wind on their feet
vitiligo shifting their heart
©2007 by C. Delaleu
painting by Stefan Path

MY GRATITUDE...

* Xavier for his wonderful knowledge, thanks to him you can view videos on my page
* My knitted black scarf (keeps me nice and warm), the cold out there is no joke
* Hair wigs...I wear them only for emergencies and love trying different styles
* Laughter (I read someone's blog today rebellionlies and I couldn't stop laughing)
* My laptop (although it's been sluggish it keeps me working)
* Fruits (pineapple)
* Peace and quiet...I come home late last night and I hear crickets :)
* Rotisserie chicken and vegetables that's lunch for today