My priest said Jesus had golden hair,
was the son of Mary and Joseph;
was crucified for my sins––and I believed,

not knowing children attending segregated
schools learned white people were good;
black bad, that black children preferred
pink dolls to those who were chestnut,

but I knew my olive skin
(not even when the summer sun
glazed it caramel) never hid my blue veins;

I had run my finger along Mother’s arm,
looking for the same slender cables,
disappointed the mahogany didn’t break,
had asked, which five-and-dime
she bought me from,
wondering if it were Cunningham’s
where she got my blonde baby doll
whose hair I pen-curled ‘til I was twelve,

‘til mother bought me a doll
with light brown skin, a pink swimsuit;
tan lines, long sandy hair I could braid,

but Jesus still was a yellow-haired baby boy,
held by a veiled woman in blue robes,
seated on a throne,