by Mahtem Shiferraw

Incandescence is a name I inherit
from sultry ancestors; they must see
a light I do not see, and call me lit.
I grow dark underneath, as if I am
made of tired shadows, all intersecting
into each other, into another. We are
iridescent: black on black on blue
with slightly golden edges. We walk
in unison too: our backs bending at once,
our arms breaking, our abdomens
kicked into silence, thighs bleeding. Through
this, I ask: am I still lit? And they, again
waving braided hairs in the same direction,
as if to say, what else would you be –