Ebullition 1

I think,

and I go on

‘bout him

endlessly, as if that’s all;

faraway, he leads different,

and here a mannequin I am

to watch him grow with—

generalized anxiety disorder;

i grow the same with all this thinking,

bemoaning.

The Bluest Eye

There is more to beauty

than just beauty.

Whites hate Blacks,

Blacks hate black

and try better.

“You little black bitch,” one barked,

she lowered down;

how bitter ‘tis to look into one’s beauty

through another’s eyes.

Quarts of white milk etched with

blue and blonde Shirley Temple

incessantly gulped down

by blue-eyes-fanatic.

Her mother sides the Whites;

daughter enters and knocks over,

white girl asks, “Who is she?”,

mother replies, “They are none.”

Unnoticed, unshared, unloved;

even the black cat flaunts blue eyes;

seeks a fortune-teller, says—

“Only you’ll be able to see them.”

Her imaginary friend threatens to run,

but promises to return soon

as new blues are bequeathed.

She loves her new blue eyes,

wants them to be the bluest.