Of Charcoal Hued Memories

Black as the night my sable soul sings songs of Nubian ancestors sleeping behind closed eyes in the depths of the inner sanctum of the womb of mind—silhouettes of beings peeking through dark skies across ebony horizons. Granny said, “The blacker the berry; the sweeter the juice—that I was created in the image…God don’t like ugly… never made none but crème de la crème… That like the ivory clouds of the sapphire sky, I too, am the apple of His eye.”