To others, don’t we always look

exotic, costumed by melanin and
stiff brocade, eroticized by
steatopygia or epicanthic folds;

or

pathetic, ever-tripping
on the obvious rug wrinkle,
on divots easily avoided;

or

smug, even, twisted into
impossible knots, gravity-
defying, yet not sweating;

or

aloof, hiding our truths
behind elaborate screens
of lacquer and smoke;

or

threatening, slate-eyed,
blank-faced, all warmth
stone-curtained;

or

impressionable, the one
who surely would have
understood, if only…