Are composed of chalk,
like the white chalk writing out
of history on a black blackboard.
Like a white chalk filling in
sentences of the black experience,
scratching the surface, but proud
to see such cursive penmanship
flowing across the dark. Like
the wine dark sea of slavery when,
like red wine captured in the vials
of bottles, blood was shed. The bottles
emptied so prismed light might bob
around model ships. The White Cliffs
of Dover where a White Homeland
rolled out its banner, a peace flag
waving, a white lie rising up from
the deep. Nursed by the white
milky mouth of the mother country.