feeling sorry for the colour white...
it's not his spirit for
terror to wear his skin.
colour white is proud of
Clouds, Snow, Cockatoos,
the bubbles on crashing Wave tips...
he belonged to them first, long ago.
radical idea:
what if I felt wrapped in white
instead of trapped in white?
no longer dressed up like the faces who
raped Grandmother and her Country,
but choosing to wear
white Cockatoo feathers and
Sea spray?
no more white-hot violence branded
on dry, stolen skin if I see myself
painted up in Ochre all the time.
I am my Grandmother, together
we are a story of survival.
wish I looked like Cockatoo,
Cloud, Clay and Cockle
instead of coloniser.
change how I wear him in my skin
so they don't get to own
the colour white anymore.
*Poems and artworks by Sara Kian-Judge 2021
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