Tried to put in some
orchid purple yellow, and some
coffee colored brown
like my fingers I pricked
helping with all her stichin.
“Nah,” she say,
“keep it like the Brits,
our forefathers.”
None of that tobacco green
she threaten to put me in
should I open my mouth
bout how Master
have his way with me.
None of that
sunrise orange
come over the water
like my Mammy’s boat
done.
Just the blood red
with the deep blue
and the white stars
like the night
that swallowed up my daddy
took him north to freedom,
I hope.
In addition to writing poetry, Deborah Turner is working on a memoir about her life in West Philadelphia. Her early works appear in the Lavender Reader as well as in anthologies including the Body Eclectic and Testimony. She regularly blog publishes at www.deborahturner.online.