Imprisms - Vivita Ramadhar

Colo(u)r-colo(u)r girl--
When nighttime falls
And your heart drops,
You can watch close
And listen hard,
And you might see a little brown girl
Calling to you
Calling to you,
From this other over
Of paradise.

Last night,
I tried piercing the dark with your name,
But only heard my mother whispering mine.
It was like a warm washcloth lopped onto my forehead,
Saturated and comforting,
Until it dripped cold down my body.

Today and all the days remind me of her,
How she loves sunflowers and sunshowers,
Where the sun an’ rain ah marry
And kiss eyelashes like fresh tears.
Sometimes I wonder if I see my reflection
Or is it her reflection in the
Moonlit gloss of a coleus bush.

Sometimes I cry
Even when she's sitting next to me.

Colo(u)r-colo(u)r girl
Living in your white-red world,
I know you wanna be the one to walk in the sun,
But the palm frond has long broken,
She just didn’t let you know that you’re
Down
            poor
During the down
                           pour,
And’ll get caught beneath the rain and sun.

For sunstorms,
She sewed me a patchwork dress.
In the daylight,
The flounce swims like oil and rainwater mix,
Like Joseph kissed the hem himself.
She leaned forward and spoke:

            Colo(u)r-colo(u)r girl
            When the rainbow isn’t enough,
            I watch you twirl in the sun;
            You catch light different every time.



Vivita Ramadhar is a recent graduate from New York University and an aspiring oral historian. As a first-generation Caribbean-American woman, she is deeply invested in the narratives of women of color, Third World feminisms, and postcolonial studies in the Caribbean. Her work is a love letter to her foremothers—laboring in silence and resisting in whispers. She strives to use her more privileged positionality to return their voices to them.