Exotic in Poetry

He calls her “exotic”.
He enunciates each syllable with percussion.
Te. Te. Te. Three taps on the congas.

But, she’s not just different or foreign.
She’s exotic.
Her skin– a burnt orange.
Her hair– black and blue– dipped in ink.
His pale, freckled skin and his dusty blonde hair and she’s “exotic”.
Ta. Ta. Ta. Three strikes to the congas.

She repeats the word in broken English, “Ex-o-tic?”
He smiles sardonically.
Like he’s watching a dog sit upright.
He points to her, “Exotic”.
She points to him, “Exotic”.
He shakes the dust from his hair, “Normal”.
He palms his chest, “Nor-mal”.
Las congas estan silencio.

She repeats in perfect English, “Normal”.

Last updated April 24, 2018