A dire wolf in winter, strong
and thick with frost-hung fur.

A unicorn, its coat
a cocaine-dyed feast.

A dragon cloaked
in ice, in shards of flame.

All your fantasies
are white — but a white man?

A man as white
as these myths, a man

who is also alive, and real,
and in the right place in this world?

Such a being would be so cold
its heart would freeze and its blood

would become a static avalanche.
Such a being might long for 

green, yet green life
would shirk its presence

and slink back
into the earth to hide,

and how then
would such a white man

live, thrive, populate
beyond its own death?

It’s not possible. No such thing
exists. Look at yourself, look at me:

skinned in shades
of warm pink or brown,

hues of sun and ground.
No white here — so why then the myth?

Some are made
to explain, some are made

to enslave, some are made
to explain enslavement

then tempt away any warmth
of the heart toward those enslaved.

We’re left with a white shroud
on a body gone cold,

hiding its shrunken frame,
its jutting bones. Then,

a sound breaking
the white silence:

howled recognition.
Pierced veil. A necessary burning.