I didn’t then know the words for the myriad shades of black—jet, ink, ebony, coal, raven—much less the names of carbon-containing pigments—bone, lampblack, drop black. I did not know yet that in this alien language that has eased into my own, black is not always evil; it is not always scary or calamitous. I did not know then that in the poems of lovers and losers alike, black can even bring peace. And that the reason the world is so fraught with violence is because Black and White are cast as enemies, as absolutes: Us and Them.
