Only a Black face throwing light could cast so many shadows.
Only a Black man in charge could garner so many foes.
When only a Black general, when only a black lover,
when your only black friend is only yourself . . .
when your Desdemona’s so white she doesn’t understand
what went wrong. When you’re the only Moor, white men
say things like, “Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago.”
Desdemona looks for you with a candle in the daytime,
but you still don’t see her. You can’t see her
when you can’t see yourself. Only the whites
of the eyes of the whites see behind you.
Only the eyes of the Moor eyes the shifting of the day.
When proof appears, who appears behind the man?
Even a handkerchief, dyed in mummy, the color
of your own hand, reveals a foreign touch.
You want to touch the truth with your eyes,
so you can see the magic in the web of your wife.
But even your body, begrimed in beauty, can’t be trusted,
if you don’t trust your own life.