Triggered by ‘Jungle Fever’

We sat on the couch watching Jungle Fever, and gripping your hand tightly,
I wondered if you had noticed the tears in my eyes, the horror.

I watched you closely, wondering why I saw neither in your own.
At the end, I ruptured, fell into your arms and cried.

I wasn’t rooting for the interracial couple, cheaters, bigots in their own way,
But listening to how people spoke about their love,

The dozens of acidic names, rapid fire — that, once launched,
Reduced humans to objects, to animals — it was unbearable.

Our children might someday be called mulatto, quadroon, octoroon,
Or look at their own skin and feel shame.

“I should be comforting you,” I sobbed, rebelling against this absurd reality:
Hadn’t my ancestors razed and pillaged and raped yours

And yet you still sat, holding my hand on the couch?
You offered me a sad smile, voice gentle sorrow as you said:

“This is all new for you.” For you, of course, it was old.
Your tears had turned solid, calcified to line armor chinks.

You had filed it away with all the other hard facts, like a child, who,
After disbelief and dissonance, finally accepts that everybody dies.