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.