Rhea Daniel Dear Poet Bio

Skin I'M In Part Three

I remember my father’s skin scarcely wrinkled as he approached 80 years,
 the Native American in him brushed across his cheekbones even on his painful 
death bed. 
I remember the skin of my mother, still soft and warm, as she lay dying; 
she had fabulous, resilient, rich, black, glowing skin.  
I think she looked less wrinkled and tired then I do now but it may be hero 
worship.  
She wore her skin well, was proud of being human and alive and a woman and a 
survivor and a mother and proud of being B- L- A- C- K before it was a fashion 
and she cherished all beings in all skins-feeling at ease with all-treating 
everyone as if they were royalty and precious as velvet- because she was the 
royal one. I hope I live long and good enough to get to where my mom lay dying 
as she was a woman who was comfortable in her own skin.

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