Prism: a poem

they say that I am white
but I cannot find that part of me.
they point to My forearm and say
"there!" as if they have won.
I look down, but all I see
is blue veins strung taught
under a fleshy mother
of pearl casing.

when I pierce My skin further,
searching for this opaque identity
only red unveils itself visible--
making tiny puddles of murky
rain, a scarlet row of braille.
there are no other hues.
I am confused.

in science they teach us about light,
about prisms and how refraction
illuminates the spectrum of visibility.
this is how rainbows are formed,
this is the creative purpose
of white's translucent invisibility--
to project that illumination and
make diversity visible

when I tell the others that I am not white
that I am prism, I am a rainbow--
I can only be understood
in relation to the light that I interpret
they do not see My ultimate invisibility.
"You are white" they laugh,
walk away. they have learned
it is easier this way.

in art we learn that white is not the
absence of color, but a commolgamization of
many different shades, infused together to
create one encompassing blanket of unity.

but even so we do not spend time
making white--
we make brown black gold
turquoise magenta scarlet, but
when I point to My skin and say
 it's notan absence but a substance,
tangible and meaty
they cannot draw the oils to
paint this evasive white

"it's deeper than skin",
they say--and so I dig deeper with
mercantile precision to the
very center of my being, so
confident that that i will find
that pure canvas awaiting me.

at last my hands find the
solid mass that grounds me,
hidden deep between the slippery
pink of my life-giving organs.
with one final breath, I pull--
giving birth to this whiteness
everyone keeps speaking about.

i think now it is not so literal.
i think now it is far too late.


by Sydney Odell