On Honey & Coconut Oil

i.

I give myself baths of honey & coconut oil,

so I can feel closer to my lineage—

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my mother’s mother & her mother’s mother,

descendants of the Caribbean—& pretend I am resolute

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in my heritage, pretend I am black girl glowing

in golden hour sunsets & acceptance.

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ii.

I clutch the skin between my fingers

& try to remove my caramel descent

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& yellowing undertone from myself. I attempt

to recall when I was newly born, skin so soft

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in alabaster & pre-melanin, my veins peeking beneath

the surface. Now, I spend nights of prayer—fingers

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interlaced like African prints—asking the Lord

to be of ivory complexion like when I slipped

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from the borders of my mother’s womb

and encountered a culture of colorism.

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iii.

I fold ignorance in my skin, push thoughts

below my waistline, & attach minimal knowledge

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of my ethnicity on my hip. I do not understand

the power in my ancestry or the beauty painted

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in my discolored, browning skin. My ancestors

blink once at the cultural knowledge I lack,

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blink twice in disbelief, & blink themselves

three times into obtuse constellations.

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iv.

When I have grown into myself, I will have learned

to bleed into my culture, develop heartache

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for a home in the Caribbean, & create burial grounds

for my ignorance. When I am older, I will remember

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what it is like to feel shame, feel my ribcage overturn

in my torso, & feel the weight of carrying sea salt tears.

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v.

So I can feel closer to my lineage,

I give myself baths of honey & coconut oil—

​

for my mother’s mother & her mother’s mother,

descendants of the Caribbean. I push my head

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down under, allow carbon dioxide to rise in my lungs,

& shift my body into a chrysalis of aching.