is the colour of her skin.
is the arrow her father looses
to keep his kin.
is her mother's hand
kissing a hollowed out tree trunk -
rounded, smoothed, and covered
with deer skin -
a tribal drum.
is her village's folklore
told in every stroke
of a wooden stick
on seven metal kettle gongs.
is her hair she flips
each time she turns
and sways her hips
as she dances to the beat.
is the sun's lips
her ancestors once kissed.
is not only a colour of her skin.

Wrote this poem for my very first guest posting. Original post is available on
 Instagram by @jingely.
Wear your color with pride! March forward, Eve!

Read Footbridge.

Once again, thank you for a rare guest post invite Jessie Jing! I can’t thank you enough 🙏

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