admiring a lover

The parts of your face

you hate the most

are the parts of your face

that are the most free:

those almond eyes,

this flat brown nose.

“I like yours more,”

you say, tracing the angles,

following the broken scar,

oblivious to the kneaded contours

bred into this face

by fear and power and intent.

You may like my pointed nose and chin,

but I love my cheekbones

and this near-black hair:

the bones and hair of my mother

and hers before her;

I cherish the parts of me

that honor my people

and our suffering

and our resistance

and our resilience.

The parts of your face

you love the most

are the parts of your face

you were taught to love.

I want you to fight by me,

but I don’t know how to explain this

so that you understand.