She colored herself on white construction paper
Light brown captured her hue
"How come they say I'm Black?"
I searched for a suitable beginning point, found none,
And just pointed to the remaining white portion of the paper, 
"See, they aren't really white"

She drew a bright yellow sun for a background 
I felt the heat
Her pencil dangled, swinging as a pendulum between art, curiosity, and thought
It struck with anguish, carving rich lips and flattened nose
"How come pretty girls on TV don't look like me?"
I wrested myself from aversion
"Well, they call TV the idiot box"

She used black for her pupils and left white uncolored paper for her cornea
There was unity of purpose and function staring at me,
Searching my core for understanding of division
I looked away
She caught my reaction, and understood