By Dave Hall
Who at the moment of his birth
caused his mother to exclaim:
"He looks like an Indian!"
as she was always reminded,
not his father, of square jaw
and blue, bluest eyes
In winter, she dressed him
in brown, to go with his eyes
His brother, like Dad,
wore blues
seeing dirt, then realized
he was only tanned
The neighbor children asked if he was black
And he, too young for shame
said yes, probably, though not-
just deep-complected like his mother
who married up
he, who felt a shock
each time he caught his reflection,
pictured a rather different boy
rounder, lighter
More like the other, fairer, brother
"handsome, like his father"
"And those blue eyes"
As clucking women said
too young too receive
watching the weekly procession
of dark and sallow men
Finding them ugly to the last
and hoping, yet, praying
he'd one day grow out of his shade
and be handsome, too
He dated blond-haired girls
including one, who, when kissed,
remarked upon the fullness of his lips
(hers were merely painted on)
He tried the stage
and was cast as villain
too many times to count
and he thought nothing of it
He went abroad, encountered kin
with browner faces, and darker skin
He returned with baubles,
and placed them on his mother's lap
Hammered gold like
New England leaves in Autumn
"Let them dangle there," he said,
"against your skin"
And so, she did,
above her pale blue sweater,
the color of the first shirt
he ever bought himself,
They hung the barest instant,
while she oohed and showed them off
then shut them in the case
with pink painted nails
which shone against
the colors of the skin they both wore
here, olive, there brown
in summer, browner
One color on the palm
another on the back of the hand
reflection of each other
No less shocking now
embattled by hue
He, born of her who
needed a country
Needed a country
less than he needed his skin
which needed to be seen in fairer light
not dark, too dark