At first a delicate violet bloom, nectar rich and inviting,
From stalk tip the silken flower withers and falls away
As it must to prompt the hardy vine to dangle
a pod-sheltered, round-bodied, black-eyed pea.
From this sheltered life I’ve escaped and grown,
and along the way acquired a defining scar.
My scar, like yours, is from attachment
And it has shaped my identity.
But from the farm to your palms, black-eyed as I am, I became more
More than a skin given to identifying, beautifying, uglifying marks
More than my country of origin and cocktail of parental traits.
And, as attachment looking like hunger flares in your eyes
seeking to blind, I, through it see a golden brown future:
I see myself stripped of coat and readied for balling
I see, cupped in your palm, my life —
A life meant from violet blush to serve.
I see that where your soft body ends
mine comes together with spicy resolve.
And with a good rub, I sputter into your pan
unafraid to be firmed by fire and remade
a rounded, golden brown acaraje,
A morsel of delight.