The Dependence of Soot

If men were paid,
instead of gold, in
soot
would my hair
be beautiful to you?

When brown dirt
becomes tainted with snow,
then, will I
be beautiful to you?

Ahh, but if only I didn't breathe
and speak in spices and low, guttural sounds,
and if I didn't hear around me the chinking of bangled wrists
now loose from their shackles, and if I weren't enveloped
in the arms of outcasts, I might actually
believe your lies.

One day, then, will I be beautiful
to you.

But kohl-rimmed eyes don't need your compliments,
as we do not need
you