For Uche
What color was the cameraman
that stole your telling face and
tried to flatten its bold features
out across such glossy paper?
Did he try to coax you to smile
by making cheap imitations
of your mother’s tongue
with infantile inflection?
Or did he shout at you
in his own language, expecting you
to figure out the intended meaning
not by deciphering words, but tone?
One observation I can make with certainty:
You are looking upward to an unseen heaven,
either rolling proud eyes or drawing down
some power beyond your caged frame.
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