Inside, a Witness
by Aaliyah Anderson
The worser spirit a woman colored ill.
—“Sonnet 144” by William Shakespeare
Hyperpigmentation, a face (so old)
revisits every root. So—something, or
mud-caked boots, perhaps, for first
time. I remember the girl reminding
the other girl that she couldn’t be
Stefani because Stefani is not
her. Noir too shade-of. Our teacher
hugging the initial girl, apology
for the thoughts she just had, the
ones shared behind sticky cubbies. Not
funny, stop it, talked to us. This was
the disorder, sorry, the mistaken work
of learning. What color is your ass?
I chose chestnut because tan was too
light. A violent unboxing didn’t require
a broken white. No, really, no answer. I
back away from dirty clumps cried out
of sky. It’s bad, I remind him. Pictures of
yellow snow to note me of this life. See,
I know pity. I drew clouds w/ accuracy,
using right thoughts w/ intentions for light
explanation. Cocoa butter, you see. She’s
ethnic, so it’s even better. I imagine I’m
the only person they whisper this to, horrify
at prospect of any other. What do I compare
thee to? Those blue-skinned men travel on
landscapes on maps, that foldable orange,
kickable clump. Open door to acrylic rubbed
into toilet seat…years before, when we said
spirit animal, & I didn’t know about starlight
tours or rice water affirmatives. Marvin played
in the car, radio saved w/ gospel just to prove
the church once a year. I used to be into drawing
eyes in blue ink, found red to be disgusting.
Always a sketch, my hands the instinct. I am
a wild beast. Typical: the magnets disrupting
how we line ourselves up. I always forgot
ears. I’ve forgotten my answer, which trail we
leave behind, which means color, meaning not.