We hunted him as a stag
across his fields, trophy
we called him red man,
color of Ares, gods
sacrificed on our altar,
his rivers run with his spirit.
I am white
bereft of color,
barren, a glare
a desert stripped of life.
It is I who wear
Cain’s mark, plucked
from the garden
the sweet taste fades
my lips are dry.
You are black
an amalgam, green
of the grasses in summer field,
orange of sun
singeing an ocean
surf ablaze, blue
of a crystal sky
purple of robes
of Nubian kings,
brown of the soil
fertile and yielding.

First appeared in IHRAF Publishes Literary Magazine, Issue 1, 2019
https://anoldwriter.files.wordpress.com/2023/04/8d041-ihrafpublishes2019.pdf