In art, black is just the absence of color,
like the absence of you in history books and boardrooms.

Or maybe it’s the presence of absence:
The blank space where your son used to sit–
where your mother used to dance–
where your father once cried when the police brought the bodies–
limp, lifeless, drained of color.

Or maybe it’s the listing that suddenly disappeared;
the vacancy already filled:
“I’m sorry, you’re too late,” say the white, white bodies–
the same white bodies seeking you on Craigslist.
“Cross another experience off my bucket list.”

But you are so much more than an experience.
You are a universe.

Still, they ignore your beauty for the spots of light, call them stars;
call you dark matter.
Funny, when you don’t seem to matter to them
unless you’re under a microscope.

So when they say they’re blind to color
what they really mean is that your absence is not seen.
They’re too busy staring at stars
on the silver screen.