17: Jesus Cole

His skin will darken yet,

in the sun; he will be

absorbed by his own shade,

a stripe of black, a seam of shock through the world.

The color purple: noble bound, rich blood,

gold is right upon him, my king,

a diamond lives within him, but

be wise men. Outside, there is still unrest

over your birth, some are not comfortable

around colors; they feel

bruise or hurt. You reflect their suffering, and the light bearing

of your Father is sullied to have been in me, to

have called you forth from the stars

in the dust.

There is kindness; still in the planting

there is God; still in the fields where

the master knotted his whip, took me and made you. Now

all the land will be your land; we have come a long way

for healing. You will grow here and I will close up

everything colorful, in the silhouette of you. The master's haste,

this has brought us. Hope,

if hung from this world, he will know

the lion is a ruler, a fire; his mane of hair lives

with the springbok; my boy is

an elephant, tiger, wearing gray skin and stripes on hide as ordained

by God, like Jesus

His land cannot be measured, his pride unshaken, unworn, inborn.

When he mates

don't you hear him shake this world. His lioness,

the universe, lying calm beneath him.

What has this work become;

greed and fear built this picking; white hands demand we

pluck their white off the world. This greed is just a plant,

grown around a human mind; in the garden,

will irony always be so sad, and full of fear, my creamy child

pulled down under cotton, clouds, that hateful white. Made good.