Me, of Color
by Philip Runia
Illustration by Tayden Seay
The ruddy dirt in Texas, just after a Wyoming rain spattered across my back.
The hide of piglets, squeezed squealing in my palms until almost white, but not quite.
The lone drop of buttermilk chocolate that formed the mole under my ribs.
The flat molasses pancake, marked at birth, then flattened with age on the rear of my right hip.
The yellow of the nursery I’d have laid in, had our house been a home.
The manila of my melanin that breaks my blackness, distinguishing stretch marks from the lashes of my ancestors, just on my mother’s side.
The golden hour glow that blondes the hair on my arms and forehead, though not nearly Aryan.
The caramel candy which grandmother tongues, just on my father’s side, like an accusation, questioning my coloredness.
All brown, are the features I am beholden to, beautiful in my eyes.