Saturday

1.

How often you say,
Your dark skin is beautiful,
out of love. 

But I feel itchy,
every time.

Your logic
collides
with my insecurity.

My retina sweats. 
An artery breaks.
A dozen brain cells fall asleep.  
 
In my country,
Dark and beautiful
are mutually exclusive.

Dark, a matter
of social embarrassment.
The color of shame;
A family punishment
for bad karma.

The answer
always
is bleach.

2.

Sometimes
It feels as though
you live
in the anvil-shaped bone
of my middle ear,
having escaped
from my heart.

3.

My ankles dream
of Mauritius,
and turquoise beaches.

My joints interact
over Saturday brunch -
about arthritis,
and loblollies.

I have created an atlas
of my blood's highway system,
spread over the coordinates
of a closed country.