He runs towards me with his biggest smile, his cheeks glowing with happiness. My caress waiting in my arms. As he’s getting closer, I feel the temperature’s rising. It’s no lie, the sun is moving in. I smell it in his hair, his smile, his cheeks. And that’s proving it. He is my golden boy, my eldest son.
Still he thinks of himself differently. He’s shows me the self-portrait he made. A boy with the color of mahogany looks at me. How can a classroom of fair faces darken his reflection so? Wow. A wooden mug between porcelain vases. When did ivory skin trump golden tan?
Day 3 of Writing 201: Poetry. Skin, Prose poem, Internal rhyme