Ask A Black Man

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Ask a black man the color of the sun

and he’ll tell you it’s golden.

He’ll tell you that the stars have a light switch

and his melanin eyes regulate their intensity.

He’ll tell you that the sky is a symphony of colors,

synonymous to the Ankara he rocks on a daily.

He’ll tell you that the moon knows him,

and it calls him by name.

The crescent is a fence he sits on

and the mountains shake hands with his imaginations when he dreams.

Ask a black man about beauty,

the lines on his forehead will smile.

The very smile he wears

when the keeper of his heartbeat walks by.

He’ll tell you that her waistline makes the sun shine brighter

and when she speaks,

every other voice hides itself.

He’ll tell of her skin,

that it needs no foreign cream because it is Vaseline unto itself.

He’ll tell of her thighs,

that they are soft, just like her earlobes,

but then strong,

firm enough to hold his fears together.

A glimpse of her is the equivalent

of oxygen he needs per day.

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Ask a black man about music,

the first thing he thinks of is a talking drum

because his voice is good a melody enough.

The chipping birds will join him in singing

and the trees would dance as the branches

shake boredom from off their shoulders.

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Ask a black man about hope,

he’ll tell you it sleeps safely in the dimples of a new born,

clothed in the warm skin of a soothing smile,

somewhere between fact and fate.

He’ll tell you, that so long as the sky bleeds rain,

and the ocean wakes up before the sun every morning,

then there’s an ounce of hope for his existence.

The black man is a walking encyclopedia,

ask him anything,

there’s always an answer. 

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