Talks about Race

I have dark skin, dark face, and darkened eyes—

the white resides only outside the pupil.

I don’t know how to think of this—
I wasn’t taught to notice one’s colors;

under the sun, everyone’s skin bounces streaks of light.

Which do I claim? It is difficult to explain
the difference between African & African American
the details escape me, thin paper folding the involucre of a burning fire.

I am “other”; it is such
an indistinguishable form, beyond the construct of the proper self.

Sometimes I am asked
if I am Indian, Middle Eastern, or Biracial;

I don’t know what to say to these people
who notice the shape of the eye before its depth
the sound of the tongue before its wisdom
the openness of a palm before its reach.

And what to those who call me “African”?
Don’t they know I can count the years spent back home
wishing I knew I was “African”?

And how to cradle and contain the disappointment that is
rekindled whenever someone does not know
my Ethiopia, my Eritrea.

I don’t know how to fit, adjust myself within new boundaries—
nomads like me have no place as home, no way of belonging.

Mahtem Shiferraw