Image by Joshua McKnight
Ubong Johnson is a writer and editor from Nigeria and is fascinated by literature.
Dark-skinned Rainbow
the preacher's mouth was a gallon
of rum;
my mother scooped from it a glass,
gulped it down,
and forgot my name.
i had just turned fourteen and was
caught kissing a boy,
digging my grave, offloading a
truck of shame upon my
father's chest.
mother yelled amen each time the preacher's
whip fell on my back,
and prayed that the demon in me would
abandon its home.
her son would not be a rainbow,
she pleaded—
there are no treasures at the end of rainbows
stained in black skin.
our community does not embrace
the unnatural; they cast
them away like stones into a sea of
rejection and watch them drown.
the demon left.
or at least the preacher said it did.
but i would not stop thinking
about him, my lover, itching to
feel his lips against mine.
i reported myself to the preacher
when i dreamed about laying in bed
with a man, kissing.
the preacher dipped a broom in
oil and whipped me all over.
this time,
i screamed amen myself.
better to be hurt by a broom,
than be spat to the ground
for attempting to twist black skin into
the shame that is a rainbow.
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