If I’m White

I am a dream-puffed cloud

hogging the view

from above,

an eggshell cracked too easily,

a cony,

soft and plump.

I am a cushy mattress,

a naked hanger, a sterile cotton swab.

A sugar cube stacked

with all the other sugar cubes,

a mail truck

delivering more bad news,

a Chicago snowstorm

burying

you.

I am a golf ball,

a hotel bathrobe,

whipped cream on a macchiato,

a chalk arrow on the sidewalk,

thick and pointing

at La Raza Nation,

wetbacks and

feral cats.

I am sclera swallowing pupil,

bone, stiff beneath flesh,

formula replacing milk

from your mother’s

sagging

breast.

Exposed epidermis, alien to dirt,

a blister welting

on the heel of

every

olive

foot.

I am just a cauliflower head

tucked in a fridge, wondering

what happened to my roots,

the warm air,

earth and the ripe

smell of sweat.

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