Verde, verde, verde every color is verde
And i think on federico garcía lorca,
how i read this poem to him, days old,
his whole body less than six pounds on my chest
and now he stands a wild octopus boy
on a chair reaching for the markers.
verde, verde he says, though the uncappedtool
marks page to orange and his father says,
he knows what the best color is.
i say, naranja o anaranjado, he has to know his colors
and go into a diatribe about school,
not being behind. It is not about school.
he is my son and so the box waits:
a check mark of abuses woven into his identity.
will he ever be able to just be the creative child
who says verde, verde, verde for all the colors,
glorified for how his mind stretches divergent?
my husband does not know that the box
can be a casket and each day
we must fight for it not to be.
ahmaud ran on a street lined with green leaves.
lorca wrote a poem. they shot him, too,
so bright. i just want my son
to know his colors and live.
From black god mother this body (Black Freighter Press, 2022). Copyright © 2022 Raina J. León. Reprinted with the permission of the author.