here, no one cares about your fashion.
she was the only one in love with it:

that gold, velvet durag that shined
like ingots polished by her fingertips.
you took back her nightmares of the gold coast,
she looks and is reminded of Ghana.
the Motherland would be so proud.

you seized the Land of Gold and
it shined over that brown forehead
and below it, those
Black beautiful cornrows
swam in waved parts,
she could drown in your fashion

you yielded the Land of Gold
and the memories came flooding
like generational curses:
the Motherland and her trauma
falling to the hands of her children,
to their children, to their children,
we feel the ripples in bittersweet tides
and you wore them. and they tasted a little sweeter.
the Motherland was so proud.

she continued to drown, gracefully,
submerged head to toe in your fashion.
she fell in self-love with the way
you complemented her history,
what she felt was her worst parts,
she felt healed and complete.

she fell in love with that
gold, velvet durag complemented by
those Sahara-colored Jordans,
them gold chains kissing your collar bone,
bro your body is the continent, and
your fashion drew her glare.
you felt self-love too,
and hers

her gold fingertips were the coast
you gave back to her—her own Land of Gold,
her brown skin, her parted braids in
tandem with yours like curved rivers
that have no ends and flow
into one another like
ancestral ties
or the oils dripping to your ears—
like liquid gold, those Black beautiful braids
—those African curved rivers never dried out,
and never stopped shining

you fused with the motherland
and the ancestors you never knew
but felt in your blood.

you embodied the Motherland
and the love she felt for you.
the Motherland was so proud
and she loved you, her sweet, golden child

JAMAR JACKSON is a member of the class of 2028 and lives in Pierson College.