The Grey
Charmed | Jasmine Kareem-Robinson | Digital
The Grey by Juliette Leeth
It used to be called the black because
it was natural and came straight from the earth.
It was the black when it was found in the cycle of life
and you watched a dark beak destroy hapless eggs in a nest.
That type of pain was unavoidable. The dastard twin brewing in the
light who shone on a baby bird taking its first flight.
But two legs and a brain grew and that brain thought too much.
Someone asked if we could create our own light.
And because it wasn’t pure, its shadow didn’t turn out black.
It turned out grey.
See, the black is rigid and cold. It doesn’t bend to the touch.
The grey is malleable and warm. It shifts and changes in our hands.
And it was so easy to add to the grey.
Open mouth, spit flying, grey growing.
Split the earth, disrupt the nature, grey growing.
Burn fire, melt the metals, load the rounds, let ‘em fire, the grey growing.
And suddenly the grey could move on its own.
It came down upon the backs of melanin and left a scar.
It wormed its way between the thighs and penetrated.
It went bang and lodged itself in the skull of a nine year old.
Everywhere the grey touched it left a piece of itself. A twisted memory that thrived
inside the minds of its conquests.
I don’t want to talk about the resting space of the grey,
nestled comfortably between President Grants and Franklins.
I wanted to talk about the pieces that the grey has scattered.
If you have a piece, could you pull it out for me? Dig inside your heart and mind. Excavate it. If you have two, or even more find a basket to hold them in.
I’ll take my own, stuck between the atriums of my heart and pull it out for you. Put them in a mismatch collage of grey. Together.
Watch what happens when they come together like this.
Each piece glows, still ringed with grey on the outside but a pure white light shines from inside. We found the Sun in each one.
A bird spreads his wings for flight.
The wind lifts him in the air and…
