The perfect woman, you witness and do not speak. You
are the mirror of the men who made you and the heir
to memories not your own. A pedestal lifts your giant
body to the sky. But history is concrete on your feet and
drags you back to earth. They called you mother of exiles
and the homeless but never told you that the copper traded
for slaves is in your skin. Or that the masters who built
America built on immigrant backs they often broke. Now,
verdigris green as new minted dollar bills hides the brown.
You can pass for art and not be taken zip-tied to detention
in El Salvador or the Everglades. Another queen, her ghost
drifting somewhere deep in Harlem, whispers in your ear
about strange fruit that used to swing from trees. You gaze
at the Atlantic, impassive: but in the rain you cry.