Some people love only a
particular kind of face, only
a certain color of skin, only
a distinctive accent in another’s
voice, only a spelling of a
last name like their own.
They probably prefer a blank
canvass to one of Picasso’s.
They need no eyes, not even
a heart:  bigotry blinds their
sight;  the suffering of others
they do not feel or see;  their
soul is dark and sick. I prefer
different faces, eyes as blue
as robins’ eggs, brown or black
as Mother Earth from which we
all come. Show me different
dances, different clothings,
different customs. Teach me
of the variegated ways so
many others live and fall in
love, making babies of skin
colors, one different from the
others, but all crying for mother’s
milk like infant members of a
Greek chorus. We need a
deus ex machina to turn
racism into the rhapsody
of love.