Down the Line

Momma told me to own my brown eyes,

to make them even darker with a stick

of liner and mascara as black as night.

She was proud to have me look at them,

family who couldn’t see me as she did.

Unyielding as my Paw-Paw, from whom

our eyes got their brown, Momma said

anyone who mistreated us held jealousy,

or maybe fear we’d see who they were

when they left their pews. Our genes

are strong, she professed: proof on my

sister’s face and mine—then my nephew,

who arrived wearing his mother’s face.