Yellow: a pondering

The sun comes down

gooey and thick

yellow

like honey.

They call me yellow too

but my skin is no honey

see-through when it runs

down the side of my mouth

no sun when he crowns

the sky, shining a toothy grin.

Maybe if I close my eyes

and my lids burn into rust

tomato orange, like logs on fire

maybe then, I am of the sun,

skin smoking, my flesh

fading under their eyes.

They look at me like the sun

too, half squinting, half

glaring, avoiding, unsure

of my alienness

my true power.

Some of us are more

of milk, freshly poured

of dry earth, thirsting for rain

of tree bark, each line

crackles a story

of tea in porcelain cups

of mud, bursting with life,

love, history

but never really, truly

yellow.

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